


Like Embers in the Rain

by WillowFromBuffy



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 16:57:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowFromBuffy/pseuds/WillowFromBuffy
Summary: To my dearest Spike,It is time. Mommy has to go. The others cannot abide her any more. Will you be the one to do it, my dear? Will we have one last dance? Will I feel your thrust against my loins before they explode into ash?Just promise me you won't cry, my sweet. If they see you cry, they will kill you. They won't forgive you, if you cry. Be brave. It is nothing to fret about. Sons bury their mothers. Men find other bosoms to cry into.Yours always,Drusilla.





	1. Lif and Lifthrasir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set shortly after Angel S5. It is consistent with the TV shows, but breaks completely from the comics.

  
  
_There’s a stake in your fat black heart_  
_And the villagers never liked you._  
_They are dancing and stamping on you._  
_They always knew it was you._  
_Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through._  
  
Angel folded the note and placed it on the bedstand. The letter brought back painful memories … things he would rather not dwell on any longer. Drusilla would soon be gone, just like the rest of her kind. She was one of the few who remained. It wouldn't be long now. It was almost over.  
  
While he had been reading, Angel had been tracing Buffy's movements through the house. With his vampiric hearing, it was hard not to. She was in the bathroom now. She turned on the shower. The water pattered sharply. Buffy stepped into the shower and Angel heard the sound of her body breaking the stream of water. She moaned in response to the temperature. First, because it was too cold. Then, because it had become too hot. Soon he would be able to stand there with her, crammed together in the tiny tub, watching her nakedness from above. For now, he could only imagine.  
  
The water cut off. Buffy's naked feet stepped out on the floor. She hummed softly as she dried herself off with a towel and got dressed again. The door to the bathroom creaked. Buffy stepped out into the hall. Her bare feet stepped softly on the carpet. She walked straight past her own room. Angel saw the light shining through the gap underneath the door break. The handle came down. The door slowly opened and the light from the hall flooded the room. Buffy's slight figure appeared in the opening.  
  
“Hey, lover,” she whispered.  
  
She was wearing one of his shirts. He could see her cold nipples push against the soft fabric. The shirt fell so low over her crotch that he could not see whether she wore anything underneath. He should have listened more carefully as she got dressed.  
  
“Are you all right?” he asked her.  
  
“Yes,” she said and came towards him. “I just felt the need to talk.” She sat down at the end of the bed, adjusting the hem of the shirt to keep the mystery intact.  
  
Angel noticed Buffy looking at the folded letter on the bedstand. “Another letter from Drusilla,” he said.  
  
“What is she saying?” Buffy asked.  
  
“The usual,” Angel said. “She's calling me an Uncle Tom - a traitor to _our kind_.”  
  
“Haven't you been one for a long time now?” Buffy asked.  
  
Angel sighed. “I guess,” he said, “but in her confused mind she must realise that the end is coming for her soon, and somehow she seems to have learned about my get-out-of-jail-free-card.”  
  
Buffy smiled. “It wasn't free,” she said. “You earned it.”  
  
Angel found his eyes wandering down to Buffy's naked legs. Her thighs were fuller than they had been. He shifted his position so that his growing erection would not show through the blanket. “I guess,” he said. “It will just take some getting used to. At the moment, I am one of the damned, bound for eternal torment. In a few weeks, my soul will be washed clean, and I will be able to eat hot dogs in the sun.”  
  
“... and take your bride-to-be to bed.”  
  
“... and take my … bride … to bed.”  
  
Buffy leaned forward and gave Angel a kiss. Her body rubbed against his bare torso through the thin fabric of her borrowed shirt. Her wet hair fell over his face. Lately, her touch had started to bother him. She was so warm and full of life. Her eyes were wet and her lips were moist. The rhythm of the blood flowing through her neck up to her brain pounded in his ears whenever she came near. How could touching him excite her so? His skin was dried up and cold. There was nothing moving inside him. It was only through dark magic that his dormant insides did not rot away. These thoughts had become unbearable to him. He could not wait for the day his flesh would be restored.  
  
Buffy sat up in the bed. "I better go," she said. "We don't want to do something stupid so close to the finish line." She put her naked feet on the carpet and began walking back to the hall.  
  
Just before she reached the door, the phone on Angel's bedstand started ringing. Angel groaned, but he figured it could be someone from The Initiative, in which case, he better answer. He picked up the receiver and mumbled a greeting.  
  
"Hello, brother," was the response.  
  
Angel dragged his palm over his face. "I am not your brother, Spike."  
  
Buffy stopped on the threshold.  
  
"No?" Spike said. "I thought we were soul mates, mate."  
  
"What do you want?" Angel asked, impatient for the conversation to be over.  
  
Angel heard Spike snicker. "Oh? Is that so? Now that you're soon to be made into a real little boy, you're suddenly too high and mighty to speak to the rest of us. Just throw us on the scrap heap like some broken old toys."  
  
"Spike, it is not as though I am the one who decides which vampire the divine powers of the cosmos want to turn human," Angel said. "Let it go."  
  
"Don't worry, mate. I bear you no grudges," Spike said. "I just needed to speak to your old lady."  
  
"Speak to me," Angel said.  
  
"No, no, Angel, this is about business, see?" Spike said. "Seeing as you're soon about to retire, I think it is best if I told this directly to the slayer."  
  
Angel put a hand on the mouthpiece. "Spike wants to talk to you," he said, "and he is being a dick about it."  
  
Buffy sighed. "I better hear what he has to say," she said. "I feel responsible for him."  
  
"You have no reason to," Angel said.  
  
"Just give me the phone." Buffy sat down on the side of the bed and took the receiver from Angel. "Hi, Spike. Listen, if you are calling to brag about how many vamps you've dusted this month..."  
  
"Nah, luv. I already know you can't hold a candle to me these days," Spikes said. "It's not that..."  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Then, Spike, what is it?"  
  
Angel heard Spike's voice deepen in a way that made him uncomfortable. "It's about the boy."  
  
"Which boy, Spike?" Buffy asked.  
  
"That Harris kid," Spike said. "Xander..." Spike was silent for a moment. "Dru," he finally said. "Drusilla got to him."  
  
Buffy dropped the phone. Angel caught it and lifted it to his ear. "What are you saying, Spike? Is Xander dead?"  
  
Buffy had turned white as the sheets. Her face bore an expression of utter paralysis.  
  
"I have a hunch he isn't," Spike said, "but I can't know for sure. I hope ol' Dru is keeping the kid as bait. I am bringing the slayer dyke, Missus Cardboard, Nikki's kid and some soldier boys down to find him."  
  
Angel swallowed. "I don't know what to say, Spike."  
  
"You don't need to say anything, mate," Spike said. "Just be happy in the knowledge that there are still people out there fighting the good fight. I'll bring the kid back safely in time for your big wedding retirement party."  
  
Angel finished talking to Spike. Meanwhile, Buffy had gotten up and started pacing back and forth across the floor. "We need to go to him," she said.  
  
"It is too far away," Angel said. "Drusilla is hanging out at some old plantation mansion in Louisiana." He pushed the blankets away and got out of bed. "We should speak with Willow. Maybe she can do something … with magic. At the very least, she would want to know."  
  
Buffy stopped by the window. She was standing with her back to him, hugging her arms. In the reflection, she was alone. He walked up to her and put a cold hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Willow..." Buffy spoke the name as though hearing it for the first time. "Oh, God … Willow. She will …" She stifled a sob. "Willow has gone into hiding," she said.  
  
"Hiding? From what?"  
  
Buffy laughed. It had that same painful ring to it as it had had that night long ago when she learned she was prophetised to die. "She is worried about The Initiative," Buffy said. "She thinks they may rethink some of the allowances they've made for us once the rest of the vampires are gone."  
  
"You didn't tell me," Angel said. "Do you think she's right?"  
  
"I told her she was being paranoid," Buffy said. "I can't tell if I don't believe her, because she is wrong or because I can't bear the thought her being right. It would put our future at risk."  
  
With those words, Buffy took the plant that stood by the window and threw it against the wall. The pot smashed into tiny pieces and the dirt spread across the floor. "I can't take it any more, Angel," she said, as she collapsed into his arms. "I'll kill them all," she said. "I'll grind them into dust."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem at the beginning is the last stansa from Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy" about her nazi-vampire father. The title is a reference to Rutger Hauer's improvised speech from "Bladerunner." There is a pretty big "Bladrunner" and "Do Androids Dream?" influence on the entire story. Lif and Lifthrasir are the only humans to survive the Norse apocalypse, making them the new Adam and Eve. The angel in the banner is from the movie Wings of Desire, about an angel that wants to become human and experience the love of a woman.


	2. Heart of Darkness

Xander could have gotten up long ago. His limbs were still working. He could move his fingers and click his toes. The aching numbness in his muscles would likely pass once he was on his feet. Still, he waited. His headache would likely flare up if he tried to rise again and as dizzy as he felt it was uncertain whether he could do much more than crawl.  
  
The real reason for waiting was this, though: He was still alive. The smell of recent death told him the others were not. He had glimpsed the outline of their bodies. If he tried to escape, the thing that had bit his neck and sucked him half dry might snatch him up and finish the job. If he just lay there with his eye closed, then maybe it would all pass. He wouldn't have to learn what fate awaited him. Buffy would swoop in with the cavalry.  
  
Of course, as his brain slowly awoke, he had to reassess the situation. Buffy was in LA. If he was to survive, he would likely have to get to a hospital in shorter time than it would take Willow to fly Buffy here on her back.  
  
Palms to the floor. Wood, rotten, wet, soft splinters. Push himself up. Headache. Dizziness. Needs to see to stand. Open eye. Look around. Maimed bodies all around him. Three on the floor next to him. One in the bed below the large window.  
  
It was Riley. The last body was Riley's. The other's were one thing … he didn't know them … but Riley. He crawled over to the bed and pushed himself up against it. Riley groaned and rolled onto his back. He was alive, but he looked to be in a bad state, and his hands were tied on his back.  
  
Xander looked up at the window. It was raining so heavily that it looked as though the entire glass was liquid. He could not make out much of the forest outside. The drumming of the rain drops hurt his head from the inside. All he could see was a tiny white stripe that was slowly growing bigger. It took a while for him to determine whether he was seeing something outside or something inside reflected in the glass.  
  
A husky voice called to him. “Hello, kitten,” it said.  
  
Xander turned so quickly that he tripped and fell down on the bed next to Riley's unconscious body. The frail figure of Drusilla towered above him. A thin white dress hung atop her narrow shoulders and trailed down to her bare feet. With her nail, she was scratching at a strip of coagulated blood that lay along the side of her chin.  
  
Xander gulped, hurting his sore throat. “Oh my god,” he said.  
  
“Are you up?” Drusilla asked. “Are we going to play?” She was swaying back and forth, as though she could faint at any moment.  
  
Xander wanted to beg to be speared, but he knew from experience that he was dealing with a soulless creature, devoid of empathy. The only way to extend his life, and his chances of escape, would be by amusing this crazy thing. The minute she got bored with him, she would stick her fangs and claws into him. Looking at the surrounding bodies and feeling the damage she had already done to his body, he figured his end would likely be slow and painful. This was not a starved wolf he was dealing with. This was a bored and sadistic feline, her belly already full from the mice she had already eaten.  
  
A sharp nail entered the side of his gut. Xander woke up again. He had been about to faint, it seemed. Drusilla was standing just above him, prodding him with her fingers. She crawled on top of him. Her elbows and knees shot out from her body at odd angles. She looked like a four legged, porcelain spider.  
  
"So thin," she said, feeling the muscles on his arms. "Used to be so strong." Her fingers moved up to his face. "So soft. Used to have such sharp chiselled features. Mommy could cut, cut, cut away the jowls. Make the boy all pretty again."  
  
"Please, don't," Xander mumbled, as he tried to stay awake. He did not know if it was pain, fatigue or fear that was trying to rob him of consciousness.  
  
"How about I cut you up some more?" she asked. "And then you can have some of mother's special milk. I will make you into one of my little porcelain dolls."  
  
He felt her fingers stroke and probe at his lobes. The breath that came from her mouth had a morbid smell, telling stories of the rot inside. He heard the sound of her lips smacking as she tried to peer at his soul through the tunnel in his ear.  
  
“What's on your mind, Kitten?”  
  
Xander closed his eye, thus opening himself up to his inner eye. It still haunted his dreams … what happened that day. He was in a beautiful LA suburb with Riley and some of The Initiative soldiers. They had brought him along, because he had history with her. They told him he was not selling out a friend … that he was helping the American people by aiding to remove a dangerous individual … a HST.  
  
The soldiers surrounded the building. Xander waited in the surveillance car. She tried to get away. They caught her on the steps. It was daytime. There would have been nowhere for her to run. They threw her out into the garden. Xander looked out the window of the car. She looked up at him. Despair all over her face. Her hair was all disheveled. The solders told him later that she had been combing it when they stormed the building.  
  
Xander did not see her face melt. Just as her cheeks caught fire, Xander's mind was brought back to a memory that he had more or less forgotten. He had been hanging out with Jesse in the playground. They were maybe six or seven back then. Harmony had come up to them. She was so different back then. Her hair was in a ponytail. The knees on her jeans were all dirty and scratched. She had asked Xander if she could borrow his new bicycle. Xander teased her and told her it was a boy's bike. She had insisted. In the end, he had let her have a go. She rode it with no problem, even though it was a little to big for her. Up and down the little hill by the slide she went. The grass was wet from last night's fall. Harmony slid and tore off the turf, but she did not fall off the bike. Xander did not see her ride a bike much as they got older. Her parents started driving her too school … then their au pair drove her. It must be nice to be rich. Xander, Will and Jesse sometimes saw her pass them as they walked to school in the rain.  
  
When Xander saw Harmony laying on the her hands and feet on the lawn in front of her house, it was as though he was seeing that little girl on the bike for the first time since that day. He did remembered how mean she had been in High School ... how awful she had made him feel. But that day, as tears were streaming and fizzling and her artificially tanned skin caught fire, he only saw the girl on the bike ... riding round and round. She never wanted to get off. Not even when her mum called her in for dinner. Her dad had had to come out and drag her off that bike.  
  
Afterwards, the soldiers came running into the car. One of them made a joke about how she burnt faster than the others, because of all the hair spray. Riley put a hand on his shoulder and told him that he had done good. Xander collapsed on his knees and threw up on someone's polished boots. Nobody spoke after that.  
  
“Mmmmmm!” Xander was brought back by the sound of Drusilla purring by his ear. “I spy with your little eye a human whore,” was what she said. “No such fine pink clothes for Dru. No such sweet perfumes to bathe in. No comb to tidy her hair. No cream for her pale complexion. No file to file down her claws. No finery for _Prin-cess!”  
  
_ Drusilla stood up to tower above him, pulled up her dress and sat herself astride his lap. “What do you think it was like?” she asked, as she pulled him close to her by the nape of his neck. “... as she passed and passed the days away in passing? Was she scared? Would she peer through the curtains with her sunglasses on ..? ...was she waiting for you? Did she know you would come? Do you think she suspected it would be _you_?”  
  
Xander could not take it any more. He was hardly sure whether he was crying for Harmony or for himself, but his eye had started leaking. He lifted his hand, meaning to wipe his cheek, but Drusilla caught his wrist.  
  
“No, kitten,” she said, and put her other hand on his chest. “Remember the little strumpet.” She leaned all the way in to his face. “It is better to cry.” Her breath was nauseating.  
  
"Please," was all Xander could say.  
  
"Mummy could take the pain away," Drusilla said. "Make you like her. Turn your heart to stone. Make your tears crystallise."  
  
Xander heard Riley groan. He sat up and looked down the bed at Xander and Drusilla. There was no fear in his eyes, but it was clear from his expression and his movements that he was in pain. His hands appeared to be tied on his back.  
  
Drusilla clapped her bony hands. "The boy scout is awake," she said and leapt up next to him and licked him on the cheek. "How you been, my sweet?"  
  
"Never better," Riley uttered through bloody teeth.  
  
"Oh, you don't have to be brave for me," Drusilla said, as she ran her long fingers over his face. "Mommy sees. She knows."  
  
Riley laughed, but it looked like it hurt him. "What do you know?"  
  
"I know how tired you are," Drusilla said. "It is so much work to be a strong man."  
  
Riley did not answer. He looked resigned. Xander realised he could not depend on him to get the two of them out.  
  
Drusilla moved her hand through the holes of Riley's thorn shirt. "Tell me, little man, before we carve you up into messes, do you have anything you wish to confess to mommy?"  
  
Riley shook his head. Druislla growled in annoyance and bit her teeth into Riley's ear. They both struggled for a while. When Drusilla pulled back, Riley's ear was missing its lobe.  
  
"Mommy will have you in pieces," Drusilla said as she chewed the tough meat between her fanged teeth. "But first she wants to talk. Wet her appetite again."  
  
"I am not speaking to you, creature," Riley said defiantly.  
  
Drusilla put her scrawny fingers on Riley's left temple. "Then let mommy do her own little reading," she said. Her head swayed hypnotically and her eyes fell back into her head. "Mmmm! So much to see in there. Such a big brave man. So stalwart and true."  
  
"I would take that as a compliment, if it wasn't coming from you," Riley said.  
  
"But so many fears," Drusilla continued. "Much responsibility. So many people to save. Everything is hidden. Monsters in the closet. Old men in trench coats. Shadows in an alleyway. Where does he aim his gun, the man? So many monsters. So much filth. Pesky little deviants. Burn and purge!"  
  
"We almost have you," Riley said. He was laughing. Xander wished he could be so brave. "You're pretty much the only one left. And look at you … all sickly and tired. You know they are coming for you. This is the end."  
  
Xander swallowed. Drusilla merely laughed.  
  
"This is the end," Riley repeated. "Soon there will be neither vampires nor demons."  
  
“Ohhh... but no... never finished … always snakes in the woodshed … always spiders in the bed... click! click!” Drusilla snapped her tongue. “Who's next? Who's next? The witches? Shifty little women! Always hiding! Always whispering! Making love, to each other, on the leaves, under the trees … hiding, hiding …. always secret! Poems in strange languages!”  
  
“Shut up,” Riley shouted.  
  
“Slayers? Slayers!? Why so strong? All so beautiful. Why all girls? Snip, snip! Quick incision! No pain! Small pain! All calm now!” She rubbed her temples. “Yet, still more … more beds to weed. Pluck the thorns! Pluck the thorns! Oh............” She looked up with an expression of profound sadness. “Look! The rose is dead!” Her brow furrowed. "You killed it!" she said in an angry tone.  
  
"I don't know what you are talking about," Riley said. Xander could see that he was upset, but he did not know what had changed. He had seemed so brave earlier. Was Drusilla working some magic on him?  
  
"Don't lie to me," Drusilla said and slapped Riley so hard that his head turned the other way. Four deep cuts were left on his cheek. "You and the other soldiers. Big plans! Assess the situation and contain the threat!"  
  
"You're insane," Riley shouted.  
  
"Assess the situation and contain the threat," Drusilla screamed and thrust her pointed hand into Riley's gut. A fountain of blood sprayed across the bed. "Tired, he says. Sick, he says." Drusilla stood up and threw Riley's impaled body across the room. He landed face down on the floor. A puddle of dark blood spread around him.  
  
Xander screamed. The shock brought strength back to his limps. He jumped out of the bed and stumbled backwards through the room. Drusilla stood atop the bed, laughing down at him. Xander took a few more uncertain steps and tumbled backwards as he tripped over one of the dead soldiers. Drusilla leapt into the air and pounced down upon him. With her limbs outstretched and her thorn dress flaring, she looked like flying squirrel.  
  
"What's the matter, kitten?" she asked, holding his chin between her sharp fingers. "Was the sight to much for you? Sight too much for you? Only one ball left. Soft. Wonder how it would feel to squeeze it." She pointed a long nail straight at Xander's eye.  
  
"Wait," Xander screamed. "I will do anything. I can tell you about Spike."  
  
Drusilla used her nail to push away Xander's eyepatch. "Spike..." He saw her looking at his scarred socket.  
  
"Aren't you curious about him?" Xander said. "About what happened to him after he got his soul?"  
  
"My brave little boy," Drusilla mused. It was as if she was forgetting that Xander was laying below her.  
  
"He has become quite the hero," Xander said. "He kills more vampires than any of the slayers."  
  
"Spike..." The name sounded odd coming from Drusilla. "Is he coming to kill his princess?"  
  
"I don't know," Xander said, trying to move from underneath his captor. "Maybe the soul thing isn't permanent. Perhaps a good tumble in the sheets can turn him all monsterly again. It worked for Angel."  
  
"Angel..." Drusilla's head fell into her tiny palms and she started to sob. Red tears pushed out between her white fingers. "He hates me. I worked so hard and he hates me."  
  
Her whole body was shaking. Xander felt himself wanting to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. Instead, he tried to look around for broken pieces of wood.  
  
"But I could make a new friend," Drusilla said and wiped her eyes. "If I make you like me, then I don't need daddy."  
  
Xander pushed himself to his feet. "Thanks, but no thank you," he said. "I like being alive."  
  
"Do you?" Drusilla had a mischievous smile on her lips. "Haven't we seen it? Oh, yes we have. Hanging around with its work friends. Oh, yes. Listening to old men bitch about their wives. Drinking its little glasses of beer. No girlfriend of its own to bitch about. Old girlfriend very brave. Chopped into pieces. Little man very sad. I remember watching you and your bitchy friends. I remember you smelled like dead flowers. Like decay. Is that what it was like to be alive? Sitting around like bags of mulch? Every day the same? Is that it? Is that it? Is that why blood flows?"  
  
As he listened to these words, Xander was struck by a feeling of unconquerable sadness. It was as though Drusilla could peer right into his soul.  
  
"It has thought about it, hasn't it?" Drusilla said. "When it came home drunk and lonely... Wouldn't it be good to end it all? To bring an end to it?"  
  
"No," Xander lied. "I have never thought like that."  
  
"Why not?" Drusilla teased. "Flappy little thing... Why not off itself?"  
  
"Because I matter," Xander said. Saying it felt good.  
  
"To whom? To whom does it matter?"  
  
"To my friends," Xander said.  
  
"What friends? What friends? Big sister slayer dressed in white? Little sister witch dressed in black? Busy, busy. No time for little carpenter." Drusilla leant into Xander's ear. "Is that why little carpenter is playing with soldiers boys? To matter?"  
  
At that moment, something snapped inside Xander. He had had enough. This bitch could kill her at any time. If he was going to die, he would die standing up. He knocked Drusilla in her teeth with his elbow. She reeled back from him. "I ran down into the Master's cave and brought Buffy back to life," he said.  
  
Drusilla wiped her mouth. "It did. It did."  
  
Xander struck at her with his fist. "I single handedly stopped a zombie from blowing up the school."  
  
"True. True."  
  
Xander landed a good punch that made Drusilla's urchin' body tumble down to the floor. "I hit a god in the face with a wrecking ball."  
  
"So proud," Drusilla said, spitting blood on the floorboards. "More, more."  
  
Xander kicked her in her protruding white ribs. "I stopped my friend from ending the world."  
  
Drusilla rolled onto her back and started cackling hysterically. Xander grabbed a piece of rotten floorboard and held it up over her, but before he was able to strike, Drusilla grabbed his ankle and twisted his foot. He fell screaming onto the floor. Drusilla grabbed his legs and pulled herself atop him. Soon, he felt her fangs pierce the swollen skin on his neck. Hot blood flowed onto the floor beneath him. His vision became blurred.  
  
Just before he was about to pass out, Drusilla let him go. She rolled away from him and pushed herself back to the wall. Xander turned to look at her. He was too weak to try staking her. He could hardly keep from passing out. Drusilla drew her nail across her chest, creating a long, bloody cut. Her nipples had pushed themselves into the loose hanging cleavage of her dress. She just lay there. All white. Covered in smudges of blood. Licking her finger.  
  
"Come, kitten. Be brave. Be with me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of Drusilla's speech to Xander is from Snyder's speech in "Restless" which was inspired by Colonel Curtz speech in "Apocalypse Now" which is an adaptation of "Heart of Darkness," which the title of this chapter derives from.


	3. The Princess Speaks

The boy is passing out. There is not enough juice in his little veins to keep his lid open. I crawl across the floor and touch his face. He is cold. I slide my finger under his patch and push it away. Such a beautiful scar. The whole socket is just empty. It gives such a fascinating asymmetry to his face. Did his lone eye weep for its twin? Did the boy grieve the diminishing power of his sight? Does he fear that someone will come to snuff out his last lantern. Someone like me?  
  
Boys are so beautiful when they cry. Scars are beautiful, too. I scratch my finger around in his socket hole. I make it bleed again. Wounds and holes and sores are beautiful. People just think they are ugly, because they remind them of their mortality. Stupid people. We learn to live the pain and we become free.  
  
The house is now pleasantly perfumed. The bodies are seeping into the rotten floorboards. People were killed here before. The mistress of this mansion … lynched by her husband's plantation slaves. Stupid slaves. Naughty! Was she wearing a pretty dress when they came? Did they think she was pretty in her large dress? Did that make it easier or harder? There is such joy in destroying something pretty. Was I pretty once? Not really. Little mouse.  
  
It is getting lonely here. More and more voices are being snuffed out … by the stern little strumpets. Little girlies with stolen power. Not fair! Killed one of them once. Ripped her throat with my little fingers. She tried to plug the hole with her hand … keep her juice from spilling. No chance. Brain requires much juice … large veins.  
  
There is someone … nearby … past the forest. The little boy said his name … Spike … son, lover, champion. Come to kill his mommy. Come to punish her for her gifts. Oh, yes! Very sad his blonde little princess did not want him. Blames old Dru for putting poison in his veins … making him all monsterly … making him hurt the little princess, so she didn't want him any more. Silly boy! Without Dru's poison, the little man would have rotted and died a long time ago. Not grateful!  
  
My Spike is different now … there is a light shining through him. I can feel him from all over the other side of the forest … by the old plantation. There is a fire in his heart … made him mean, made him forget his promises … promises whispered into my ear when my insides where sticky with his excretions. Yes, he loved my little songs. And didn't I sing them for him? Didn't I blow his little mind?  
  
He stands there … I can see him … backed up against a tree, putting little paper rollings into his mouth and breathing them. Always with the sucking on things. Started with his false mother's teats. Always felt he was disappointed that Dru's weren't as large as the shrivelled sacks that hang on that old hag. I taught him to suck the juice from human cattle … yes … but still that was not enough for the insatiable little boy. When he writes his little poems, he spends most of the time looking at the ceiling with the pen resting in his mouth. At other times, he touches his mouth with his fingertips. He pulls them around the rim. I like it when he slips his thump into my mouth when he holds my face in his hands. Such a sensual boy. He knows the language of touch. It is not just about the strong thrust.  
  
Spike has a big sack of flesh hanging between his legs. When he is feeling boyish, it turns hard and greasy and grows into a long pole. You can see the blood throb inside the protruding veins as they grow thick inside the translucent skin. Daddy's is shorter but thicker … and more slick. I have never seen it when it is just a little fleshy sack, because he never pulls it out before it is pressing against the insides of his trousers.  
  
I remember the four of us hiding inside an abandoned mine shaft. Spike had made the little menfolk angry. He tried so hard to prove himself to me back then. Angelus would sneak into a house, kill the children and strangle their nanny. The parents would come home and find the nanny sleeping next to the corpses of their filthy spawn. It was his favourite game. Spike hadn't the patience for that. He would walk into a tavern and start a brawl … rip their limps off and throw them over to me, so I could suck the marrow from their brittle bones. It was such a beautiful thing to see. I was mesmerised. Angelus got very cross, because the menfolk came with their torches and their guns that rip flesh and burn beautiful holes in you.  
  
Yes, we hid in the mineshaft. Angelus forbid us from leaving. Spike would tease him, and they would have come to blows … but the King of Cups would not let it happen. Boring little king. Spoilsport! Spoilsport!  
  
So we hid. Long, long. Dru would lie atop Spike, hearing his belly rumble. He was used to drinking so much blood. It was hard for him to go without. Not for Dru, though. Starved before, she has. A bit of the ascetic in old Dru. They wonder how she survives now … oh yes! Forgets she was an East End girl. Forgets her father was a Catholic … oh yes! No supper for naughty girls. Go to your room! Unclean! Unclean!  
  
Yes, we hid. And Spike got hungry. And I would sing to him as he shivered underneath me. I would pull his arm around me when it slipped down. So tired and weak he got. It was interesting to see. Very skinny. Taut white skin drawn over dead muscles. Started to rot from the inside we did. Intoxicating smell! I pulled his pants down to look at his dead little flesh thing. Without juice in his veins, it was just a shrivelled sack … and the thing inside was not very big at all. It didn't help no matter how much Dru stroked and prodded it. Just lay there. Dead and old … sleeping inside its little bag of wrinkled flesh.  
  
There is no such thing between my legs ... just a messy, fleshy wound. I used to think someone had cut it off … punishment for some sin I could not remember. I tried so hard to remember the cutting … what it felt like. Was I afraid? Did I cry? But then I learned that Darla had a wound between her legs, too, and grandmother would never let anyone cut her … much. Only daddy was allowed to cut Darla and he was always very measured … very careful. Darla was like a cat allowing a rat to bite an itchy spot under its fur... a scabby cat *giggles*  
  
I have always liked wounds. Especially messy wounds. I like to prod them with my fingers. I like to lick them and taste the blood mixed with the pus. If you mix dirt into a bloody wound, you can make the most wonderful little pictures. Like inkblot smears. I see the most wonderful shapes in my little smears ... like little gnomes dancing around a campfire. There are many ways you can get a wound to ooze. Squeeze a blister between the nails. Then you rub some soil into it.  
  
I don't remember much before Darla and daddy adopted me. I remember I had a mother and a daddy and many sisters. None of them were as beautiful as Darla. Plain and skinny, like me. Boring faces. Old daddy was not as gruff as Angelus. Weak arms. Flabby gut hanging like an eve of flesh over his belt. Couldn't fit his Sunday trousers. Rotted teeth. Coughs up phlegm.  
  
I remember I had the wound back then. It used to bleed. I used to think it was because of the cut. Maybe it was because of the cut, but I don't really think that any more. If all the pretty ladies have been cut, then someone must be really busy doing all that cutting. I remember being scared when my wound bled. My older sister saw my reddened sheet. She sighed and shook her head. I bet she remember me being cut. Then she gave me a rag and I used it to plug my wound. I wish I could go back and find those rags and look at the smears … to see if they have pictures in them … to see if I can remember that feeling of being scared and disgusted. My tummy used to hurt and sometimes I would throw up in the bowl under the bed.  
  
When daddy and Darla adopted me, my wound stopped bleeding. I stopped feeling so bad about things, too. I started making wounds in other people and drink the blood that came out. I like to make big wounds. Darla made very little wounds. She could drink from a fellow and then push him back in his chair, and when his drinking buddies came back to applaud him for his whoring, they would not notice the little needle pricks on his neck. They would put a beer before him, pat him on the back and he would fall forward all stiff and topple the mug. I tried to do the same, but I was never able to. I like to make big wounds that bleed. People always notice!  
  
I like to explore wounds. I could sit for ages with my chin between my knees and study my wound while I held apart the flesh bits with my fingers. When I looked at myself standing up in the mirror, back before the mirrors and I fell out, or if I look down my belly, I only see a little triangle of dark hair. Darla does not have any hair on hers. She says she cuts it off. When she stands up, it is like there is nothing there at all. But we can open ourselves up and there it is. It is like a little secret. A secret that everybody knows … especially the little boys … and everybody wants to be in on a secret.  
  
When Spike and I would kill someone together, and I filled my mouth with blood from a big gaping wound, the flesh in my own wound would swell and go all tender. I would look at Spike and tell him with my eyes to come impale me, and he would thrust himself into my wound over and over again. Often, he would get overexcited and then he would need a little break, but he was always game for another round … as many or as few as his mother demanded.  
  
It is weird about wounds. If you prod a wound with your nails or your fangs, it gets bigger. My wound is different. No matter how much punishment it receives, it always reverts back to the same size. I remember Spike's false mommy, from before he belonged to me. Darla says Spike came out of her wound. Judging from the state of her little face, she must have had a terrible wound with awful drooping flesh hanging from it, but I don't think Spike could have come out from between her crooked little legs. Not even a tiny baby Spike. These wounds always revert to their original size.  
  
Spike leans against the tree. Ah, I feel his presence. The little burnt paper stub falls from his mouth and lands inside the puddle around his little boots. No need to even step on it. Is he cold? No, we can't get cold. But he is not wearing his coat. I remember the first time I saw his big leather coat. I had fled to New York City. Tired of his prattle. After Charlie and his daughters went to jail, there was no fun to be had on the west coast. Had to leave Spike and his long boy-hair behind. I came to New York and found a pair of kids to play around with. Real young ones. Hooked on junk. Drinking from them made the pixies come out. It made me sleepy. The kid had a padlock necklace and nice long arms. He liked knives and he had a big one that he liked to prod his girl with. He would never hurt her, see, so I had to help him. Got her in the bathroom. Stuck the knife right in her gut and made a big gushing wound that I could drink from. The boy cried when he woke up from his junk-sleep. I helped him, see. I knew he needed to cry. He cried so much, and he looked so beautiful doing it. Then his false mum gave him some more junk and he did not cry any more. I though about birthing him with my blood gush, but I had already moved on by then and the news and police were all over him...  
  
I went to an old factory building where there were many kids with junk in their arms. I could feed on them without anyone noticing. It made me very sleepy. It felt very good. It was like being a little baby and it felt as though my false mother was birthing me backwards. I was in my own little box. That is why I could not see them. Sneaky, sneaky. Little men from England with crossbows, come to shoot twigs into my blood pump.  
  
Then one of the watcherlings froze. Thought he was seeing a ghost. A thin figure wearing a big long black coat was stepping into the light. Thought it was his precious little girlie ward, until he saw the slick, ice cream top hair. I didn't recognize him in my junk-state. I just saw a devilish leopard, turned white by radiation. I couldn't believe my Spike could look so handsome. He strode into the room … no fear in his sparkling eyes. Hand on his belt buckle … I could feel he was throbbing with excitement underneath.  
  
"Step away from the lady," he said and let his little paper roll fall from his mouth.  
  
One of the watcherlings fired a twig at him. It hit him just at the centre of his chest cage. Spike licked his lips, then he charged at the man. The man tried desperately to reload his little crossbow, but my Spike pulled the twig from his shaking hands and plunged it into his skull, entering and exiting at the temples. Before his body hit the floor, Spike had already delivered a blow to his friend that spun the little man's head around so fast his neck broke with a delicious crunch. The third man got a kick to his ankle that threw him on his back, before Spike stomped him in the chest with his new boot and broke every one of his rib bones and splattered the organs underneath. It was a beautiful scene of carnage.  
  
A drop of blood rolls down my cheek. This was a long time ago. My Spike is not the same Spike. Back then, he was magnificent. He was so strong … and so beautiful … his new hair and clothes … He was like a vision.  
  
"You've killed a slayhuurrr," I mumbled in my junk-haze, and I knew that my Spike had given me the best rebirthday gift a princess could ask for. He had broken the neck of that insipid little strumpet. The spoilsport. The maggot in the beautiful apple … getting in the business of anyone who wants a taste. Spike had snuffed her.  
  
There was only one man left who still had his juices. It was the main watcherling … the one who had trained the spoilsport maggot. His anger had fled and made room for terror. He was sad for his charge but not happy to die. It would have been delicious to snuff him slowly … to prod into his mind and draw forth the memories and how he kidnapped a young girl from a Harlem family and turned her into a sacrificial lamb for my Spike to slaughter. We couldn't snuff him. Lambs die so others may live.  
  
I crawled towards Spike, unable to stand up in my junk-confusion. "Let him go," I said. "Let him go back to the little orphan. Let him raise him in hatred and misery. Let him turn the little cretin into an angry and spiteful thing that knows no happiness."  
  
My Spike didn't say anything. He picked me up and whisked me away. I stared at him with my empty junk-eyes. He was so shiny. I was so tired … so utterly drained of beauty. Would he always come for me? Would he always need his Dru? He found a secluded spot underneath huge trees. He laid me down in the grass. I though he would impale me into wonderful ravishment that I would not be able to enjoy with my dead junk-loins. But he did not... he bit me … he held me in his arms … cupping my poor head in his hand … and sucked out all the junk-blood. Then he led me out of the park and back to the city, and we found some pure junk-free cattle to feed on.  
  
Now my Spike is back … with a burning spark inside his chest … urging him to kill, kill, kill his mommy. Yes, roll another piece of paper and stick it in your mouth. Suck, suck, suck! It won't stop. It won't stop burning! Horrible light! Evil light! Burning, burning! I see his light all the way from here … all on the other side of the forest. Lighting his little paper. Sucking it. Hoping it will calm the storm. Waiting, waiting! Who is he waiting for? Does he really need any help to kill an old cast-off lover..? A confused old lady with no strength left in her little arms? Who is it who is coming to meet him? Two white globes. Eyes floating in the darkness. Angry eyes …. the _orphan!_

 


	4. Bride of Spike-En-Stein

It was the same dream. He was sitting on his knees in the sand. The buzz of grasshoppers and other insects hummed in his ears. The sky was cloudless. Only the fire between them gave any light. She was there. He could see her through the undulating flames. She was hunched over some cadaver, licking her fingers. Sineya … the source.  
  
"Why am I having these dreams?" he asked her soundlessly, without moving his lips. "I am not a slayer."  
  
She stopped her eating and looked at him. Her skull-painted face was terrifying. She pointed a crooked finger towards him, stretching her hand through the dancing fire. She mumbled something to him, but he was not sure if it was, "Soon," or, "Son."  
  
He woke up. The rain beat relentlessly against the windshield. He needed to get back on the road before it washed away. There were still a few hours left to drive. He picked up his phone. There was one message. It read, _At train stop._ _Where are you?_ He wrote back, _Not too far I hope.  
  
_ He turned the ignition key and stepped lightly on the gas pedal. The engine roared. The wheels were spinning and kicking up water. The car had sunk into the mud while he slept. If the slayer had been there, he could have gotten her to jump out and push. He smiled at the idea of getting a young girl to go out in the rain to push his jeep, but she _was_ the strongest of them. Not as strong as his girlfriend … probably … but still fairly strong.  
  
He eased the jeep back and forth. With patience, he managed to get his vehicle back on the road, which was little more than a river by now. He almost slid off when his car started aquaplaning. It would be quite ironic if the biggest … if not the greatest … vampire killer was to die in a car accident.  
  
He stopped when he came to the train station. At first, he could not see her, but then somebody knocked on the window. He opened the door. A soaking wet slayer elegantly pulled herself up into the tall seat next to him.  
  
"Hullo, Rob," she said.  
  
"Kennedy..."  
  
They drove off. They were late and they weren't really close, so they exchanged few words. Robin realised it was nice to have someone next to him, even if she did not speak. He hadn't seen Faith in weeks and she was impossible to get hold of on the phone. Apart from her, he had few friends. He spent so much time by himself that he often failed to recognise that he was lonely.  
  
After a while, Robin felt he needed to break the silence. "Last one," he said, thinking of Drusilla.  
  
"I am not here for the vamp," Kennedy said. "I am here for Xander."  
  
"Of course," Robin said. "Sorry. It is no longer a game when somebody gets hurt. We've had it too easy lately. I guess it makes you forget the seriousness of our work."  
  
Kennedy sighed. "He means a lot to my Will."  
  
"I see." Robin turned away from the road for a moment and studied her face. She looked weary. "Where is Willow these days?"  
  
Kennedy shrugged. "Who knows?" she said. "She always thanks me for keeping her grounded, but still she goes flying off to God knows where." She laughed and shook her head. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to unload on you."  
  
"Don't worry about it," Robin said. "Faith and I have our own problems. I guess everyone does."  
  
They came to a grinding halt. The car had dug itself too deep in the mud.  
  
"I'll go out and push," Kennedy offered.  
  
"No need," Robin said. "We can walk from here."  
  
He shut down the engine and turned off the head lights. The rain drummed upon the roof. Complete darkness surrounded them, but Robin spotted a tiny light a little way ahead. Someone was smoking a cigarette. He reached past Kennedy and retrieved his torch from the glove box.  
  
"There he is," he muttered, mostly to himself.  
  
"Don't do anything stupid," Kennedy said. "I went on a hunt with him a month ago. He is moody, and I have never seen anyone fight like that. I hate to admit it, but he gives us slayers a run for our money."  
  
"Faith's been talking about how she's going to dust him one day," Robin said. He felt himself smiling at the thought.  
  
"Faith would crush him," Kennedy said. "You, however, would do best not to provoke him."  
  
They exited the car. Robin pointed his torch in the direction of the light. True enough, far down the road, a tiny figure lit up. The vampire's skin shone like phosphorus. It was like a moon to the sun of Robin's torch.  
  
They made their way down the road. Robin felt his shirt and his pants stick to his skin. His boots were already filling with water. Even with the torch, it was hard not to step into the deep puddles that had formed in the thick sand. It was going to be a long and cold night. Fighting a vampire requires full freedom of movement, so they could not risk dressing for the weather.   
  
Spike hardly acknowledged their presence when they arrived. He lifted his cigarette to his mouth, took a deep drag and let his hand fall to his side again. Robin was happy to see that the vampire had traded the duster of his dead mother for a borrowed field uniform.   
  
"We're here," Kennedy said.  
  
Spike slowly lifted his head and looked at them with disinterested eyes. "So, I see," he said and flicked the cigarette onto the overflowed road. "I expected more."  
  
"Three of us, one vampire," Kennedy said. "I think we can manage."  
  
"Technically two vampires," Robin mumbled.  
  
The comment drew a smile from Spike's lips. "Still sore, old buddy?" he said and tilted his head. "See you still have those twin scars on your neck there, mate." He licked his lips. "Don't worry. I have unfinished business with this bird. I will get the job done."  
  
"Isn't this vampire an ex of yours?" Robin ask confrontationally.  
  
He thought he noticed Spike twitch.  
  
"Yes," Spike said. "I killed your mother for her … as a Valentines-present." He seemed to contain a laugh. "I guess if you're still looking for revenge, old Dru is just as howling mad evil as she was back then."  
  
Robin crossed his arms. "You're pathetic," he said. "You killed my mother so this Drusilla creature would love you, and now you are trying to kill her in the hope that Ms. Summers will take you back." He took a couple steps closer. "Us humans have different ways of showing affection."  
  
Spike smiled mischievously. "Is that right?" He stepped up to Robin. "Rumour tells me there is only one person who is as dedicated to the cause as me these days … _you."  
  
_ "What about it?" Robin asked.  
  
"Well, I've met Faith a couple times recently," Spike said. "Bird drinks a lot, and she is right twitchy. I bet she is not all that easy at home, either. I am sure not even that big manly cock of yours can calm her nerves."  
  
"Mind your manners, creature," Robin said through gritted teeth.  
  
Spike smiled, before turning his attention to Kennedy. "And you? Think saving Red's best friend will keep her from leaving you?"  
  
Kennedy crossed her arms. "It's not like that," she said, though Robin found her less than convincing.  
  
Spike leaned forward with a quizzical look. "Isn't it, luv?"  
  
"Mind your own business," Kennedy said.  
  
Robin stepped in front of her. "Enough of this," he said. "We should get a move on. Where is Drusilla?"  
  
Spike nodded towards the forest. "Through there," he said. "I would advice for us to wait for better weather, but we need to get to Xander as soon as we can. It was a good thing you were nearby."  
  
"Sure," Robin said. "Good thing... You wouldn't wanna save Buffy's best friend without an audience."  
  
Spike scoffed. "I resent that," he said sarcastically and started walking.  
  
Just then, they became aware of several sets of headlights shining from the point where the road behind them met the sky. Several military trucks where driving towards them at high speed. The first one stopped right before them. A woman jumped out.  
  
"There you are," she said. "Hostile 17 … alias The Doctor."  
  
"I am not a doctor," Spike said. "Who the Hell are you?"  
  
"I am Specialist Samantha Finn," the woman said, "with the Black Ops Initiative for the Extermination of Dangerous Sub-Terrestrials. I believe you were told I would be coming."  
  
"Your Captain Cardboard's bird," Spike said. "Just wanna warn you … I am very dangerous and often … erm ... sub the ground ... like ... I sleep in caves and that."  
  
Several soldiers leapt out of the trucks and formed a circle around Spike and Sam.  
  
"I am well aware," Sam said. "We also know you have been protecting another very dangerous individual."  
  
Spike raised his eyebrows. "You what now?"  
  
Sam's brow furrowed. "When we learned that you knew the location of the HST that kidnapped Major Finn, I sent a team to raid your hideout," she said. "We found a large amount of correspondence from this … _Drusilla._ "  
  
Robin felt himself grow angry. "You've been communicating with the vampires?"  
  
"For months, it seems," Sam said.  
  
"It is not like that," Spike roared.  
  
"You think we believe you?" Robin said and took out his stake.  
  
"I never wrote her back," Spike said.  
  
"The hell you didn't..." Robin felt his blood rush.  
  
"It is true," Sam said. "He didn't."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The letters were invitations," Sam said. "Drusilla has been trying to get him to meet her. She wants him to kill her." She shot Spike a look full of hatred. "That is why she kidnapped Xander and Riley. She wants to force his hand."  
  
"Oh piss!" Spike scoffed at her. "You can't blame me for this."  
  
Sam pulled out her baton and smacked Spike across the jaw. Blood flew from his mouth. "You could have prevented this," she screamed. "Buffy is the only reason we have not eliminated you, creature. If my husband … Major Finn … dies due to your negligence, I will dust you myself."  
  
Spike mumbled something rude underneath his breath as he stroked his chin. "We were an item," he finally said, "for more than a century. I couldn't go kill her just because she asked me to."  
  
"The slayer says you have a soul … whatever that means," Sam said. "If you want the US Military to treat you like a person, you better act like one. Another indiscretion like this, and you are dust. Cavorting with other animals is not permitted. It is bestial."  
  
"I haven't even met the bird since I got my soul back," Spike said and spat.  
  
He started walking towards the forest and pushed away the soldiers who stood in his way. Sam crossed her arms and shot a suspicious look after him.  
  
Robin proffered his hand to Sam, who took it and shook it.  
  
"I am Wood," he said. "Robin, Wood."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Mr Wood," Sam said. "I've heard good things."  
  
Kennedy swung her head back. "Kennedy," she said.  
  
"How do you wanna approach this?" Robin asked. "I don't think the vampire can be trusted."  
  
"He loves killing," Sam said, "and he is obsessed with proving himself to the slayer. I don't think he will be a problem." She looked at her soldiers. "We cannot bring our taser blasters with us in this storm. The best approach would be for my soldiers to pacify the beast with their batons and then for someone to charge in for the kill."  
  
"That would be me," Kennedy said, "as only slayer present."  
  
"You're a slayer?" Sam said. "I should have guessed. Fine … the kill is yours."  
  
"Come on," Spike shouted from down the path. "We need to get a move on. And by the way, I can hear everything you say."  
  
Sam ordered her soldiers to get in formation and move out. She, Robin and Kennedy made up the front. They walked as quickly as they could along the muddy path. Their shoes sank into wet sand they couldn't even see, because it lay submerged underneath a river of dark water.  
  
One of the soldiers prodded Robin in the back. "So what are you, then?" he asked.  
  
"Come again?" Robin said.  
  
"Don't give me that," the soldier said. "The girl is a slayer, that British guy is a vampire … what are you?"  
  
"I am just a guy," Robin said. "A guy who doesn't like vampires."  
  
"Well, then you are my kind of man," the soldier said. "You must be quite some dude to fight these beasts without superpowers or military training."  
  
Robin shrugged. "Being the principal of state school is tougher than this," he said.  
  
The soldier laughed, probably pretending to get the joke. Robin looked over his shoulder. Twelve jarheads with green helmets on. He didn't like hanging around these soldier types much. Most of them were rich kid dude bros, looking for a bit of fun, recruited from college campuses and frat houses. They weren't _in_ the fight, like he was. They hadn't lost their mother to one of the monsters.  
  
Speaking of the devil, the monster was waiting for them. Spike had stopped by a tree for another cigarette break, waiting for the group to catch up.  
  
"Tell your boys to stay on the path," Spike said to Sam. "The bird we're hunting is very dangerous. If she has left the mansion and is on the prowl, she will pick the kids off one by one if they are spread out."  
  
"Ha," one of the soldiers blurted out. "A leech against all of us?"  
  
Spike ignored him and started walking again. Sam gave the soldier a reprimand. Robin went after Spike. He was cold and wanted to keep moving.  
  
"Do you know the story of this place, Rob?" Spike asked.  
  
"Why are you speaking to me, creature?" Robin muttered.  
  
"It was an old slave plantation," Spike said. "It would have been very obvious if it wasn't dark and storming. Alas, you will have to imagine the endless fields that stretch out from the edge of the forest. The landowner was a particularly cruel and twisted bloke. He had one of those ridiculously curved moustaches."  
  
"Is there a point to this?" Robin asked.  
  
Spike ignored him. "But he wasn't half as bad as his bird, they say. The Pale Lady, they call her these days. She was against slavery. Not because she was kind, mind you, but because she believed people of the dusky persuasion had the power to taint pure white Anglo-Saxon hearts. The mark of Caine and all that. She would mistreat the house slaves and encourage the farm hands to do the same to the cotton pickers. It only got worse when several slaves of a somewhat paler complexion than usual were brought to the house by her husband to work as maids and cooks."  
  
"Please," Robin said. "Shut up, will you?"  
  
"I am just getting to the good part," Spike said. "John Brown and his men were able to smuggle a large shipment of gunpowder and weapons to the slaves. He led them in a revolt. It quickly turned excessively bloody. The Pale Lady got it the worst. After killing her husband and sons on the open fields, the newly freed slaves surrounded her house, dragged her out and had her lynched to death."  
  
"I am getting the feeling you are making this all up," Robin said. "I would rather go hiking with Andrew than with you."  
  
"Of course, the whole thing was a bad idea," Spike said. "The army was called, but an unofficial militia was marshalled sooner. Many volunteers, they say. The blacks were outnumbered and slaughtered in a most brutal fashion. The militia quickly buried the corpses among the trees of this forest, not wanting the army to discover the marks they had left on the bodies in their over-enthusiasm to serve out justice."  
  
"Sure..." Robin said.  
  
"Sometimes bones float up from the shallow graves," Spike said. "Especially on days like this when a delta of rivers overflows the forest. Also, don't be surprised to see a pale woman dance among the trees. It is the gh..."  
  
"Aren't we already hunting a pale lady?" Robin interrupted.  
  
"Yes," Spike said. "But Drusilla's not a ghost."  
  
"She kinda is," Robin quipped.  
  
They walked on in silence for a while, when Robin asked, "Why did you not go after her … or give up her location to someone else? You can't possibly still have feeling for the thing."  
  
Spike lit a cigarette. "Of course I can," he said.  
  
Robin was incredulous. "How? She's insane."  
  
Spike took a deep drag of the cigarette. The embers glowed brightly in the darkness. "You know why," he said. He took the cigarette from his mouth. There was a desperate smile on his lips. "Everyone knows why, but they still keep asking." He sighed. "She was always crazy … always mean, but I loved her just the same."  
  
"Why..?"  
  
Spike broke into laughter. "Why? Why, man, why? As I said before, I've seen Faith. I know what kind of state she is in … all drunk and angry. I bet she is a real joy to be around when she comes home wasted, still hurting for a fight. Yet, you stand by her. Why?"  
  
"Hey, man. Calm down."  
  
"We all know why. Because sometimes when you wake up at night and it is all dark, you feel her skinny arm around you and she clings to you. She clings to you so tightly that you almost believe you have something in your life holding you fast. " Spike stared up into the dark, starless sky. "Losing your soul is the best feeling ever. No fear. You don't realise it before it is too late, though … that you are drifting into the nothingness. Drusilla was my anchor. She never lost the ability to see the beauty in everything … the most mundane thing could fascinate her for hours. When she was around, things made sense. When she was gone, there was only emptiness and no matter how loud my victims screamed, they could not fill the silence in my cranium."  
  
Robin scoffed. "I heard you were a poet."  
  
Spike looked straight at him. "Faith is hurting," he said. "That is why you're so attracted by her, because you don't hurt yourself any more. Your life has been all about harnessing your pain, but now that you're older, you're not as angry as you used to be." Spike snickered. "You don't even look at _me_ the same any more. I bet you hardly get excited about the idea of getting to dust me."  
  
Robin turned away. "You're ridiculous."  
  
"Faith's anger is familiar. You want to share it. You're afraid of having to live without it." Spike walked past Robin and blocked his way. "It is not about the tits and the soft thighs. That's not why we need women. Not really."  
  
"Get out of my way, vampire," Robin said in a low tone.  
  
Spike held up his hands. "If you don't wanna talk, that's fine," he said. "Just don't pretend we have nothing in common."  
  
Robin pushed his way past him.  
  
"She's a lot like your mum, Faith is," Spike said. "Angry but proud. Strong but troubled. I see why you fancy her."  
  
Robin turned on his heel and pushed Spike up against a tree. "I could dust you now and you would be washed away by the rain in an instant," he said. "Nobody would miss you."  
  
"Then do it," Spike said. "I am your life project. When I am done, so will you be … and Faith will be done too when there are no more other vampires to beat up." He laughed. "Don't you get it, boy? We're the baggage. The new world is not for us." He nodded towards the band of jarheads that were catching up and Kennedy who walked in front. "There is the future. Ein, zwei, drei. Eine Welt! Ein Volk!"  
  
Robin let go of Spike. "Maybe you are right," he said. "Maybe I am not as angry as I used to be."  
  
"That's more like it," Spike said. "We're peas in a pod, we are."  
  
"But you were also wrong," Robin said. "There is more for me in this life than revenge. When this is over, I will spend my days enjoying life rather than fighting for it, while you'll still be drinking booze and pig's blood in a ditch somewhere."  
  
As he said these words, he thought he caught the sight of a dark, skull-faced figure among the trees. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He was being watched ... dreaming or waking.  
  
"Says you," Spike said. "I have many plans once this is over. I have lots of TV shows to catch up on."  
  
The rest of the group caught up with them. They walked in silence through the forest. Robin pondered Spike's words … about how there were bodies buried in shallow graves among the trees. Digging among the thick roots must have been difficult, but if there really were bodies in the soil, then the water that ran along their calves must be contaminated, unless the bodies had all rotted away by now. Robin wasn't sure how long full decomposition would take, but it was an uncomfortable idea.  
  
In his contemplations, Robin forgot to look out for the house. They came upon it without realising it. Suddenly they found that their torches were lighting up ivy covered walls. It looked as though it was only old-timey Southern stubbornness that kept the old building from crumbling. A massive old oak had grown its branches so long that it looked as though it was hugging old the walls.  
  
Spike put his hands to his mouth. "Drusilla, pet," he shouted through the rain. "Come out!"  
  
Nothing happened. The soldiers started forming a perimeter around the house. Spike tried in vain to warn them not to spread out among the trees. They just scoffed at him. Robin took note that the vampire didn't seem all that concerned … not in a genuine way. He turned his gaze on the building. The demon for whom his mother was killed was nearby. He could feel it. There was something else, too … in the forest … watching him … Sineya … matriarch … he could hear her lap and slurp up the dirty water that ran among the old ancient trees. He held his head. Was he going insane?  
  
Then he saw something. Pale, bony fingers came crawling over the railing on the balcony above them. They shone brightly in the light from his torch. A skeletal figure pulled itself up to its full height. A twisted head peered down upon them. Dark lips pulled away to flash an ugly grin. She was like a vision of paradox. He was struck by her beauty and majesty. He half imagined her to wave them off and tell them to go eat cake. At the same time, he found her repulsive. She hunched her back like an old woman. It could be the torchlight, but her skin looked artificially smooth and there didn't seem to be any meat underneath it to soften her rather harsh features. She looked like a snake of bones that had spontaneously grown arms and legs and painted its white face with dark charcoal. A sparkling marble facade hiding only death and rot. The last of her kind.  
  
Robin was not sure how long it took before he regained his sense of time and purpose. He looked around. Everyone seemed equally fascinated, horrified and disgusted … except Spike. Spike seemed … blank … as if the hollowness inside him had grown a little more empty.  
  
"I got her," Kennedy said.  
  
She ran through the mud and swung herself upon an oaken branch that would had led her straight up to the balcony had Spike not grabbed her and pulled her off.  
  
"Are you off your bird?" Robin heard him say. "Don't give the hag an advantage."  
  
Spike pulled a disgruntled Kennedy back to the group. The soldiers had returned and were forming a protective circle around them.  
  
"Drusilla, dear," Spike said. "Give us the boy, pet!"  
  
"Vissssiitorssss," Drusilla hissed in a deep husky voice. She giggled. "How precious. Come to see old Dru?"  
  
All the torches were pointed straight up at her. The soldiers held their batons ready. It felt strange, Robin thought. So many armed people come to kill this pathetic little thing. There was something dirty about this. The glamour had gone out of this crusade long ago. Was this how it had been like before? ...when they came to kill The Pale Lady Spike spoke about?  
  
"Drusilla," Spike said, louder and harsher than before. "I've come … like you asked."  
  
Drusilla's head turned atop her neck to consider her progeny. "Spike..," she said. Her voice was suddenly sad and weak. "You came." She laughed. "Princess is so tired these days. I cannot make sense of things."  
  
"I'm here, pet," Spike said.  
  
"Is it over then?" Druisilla said with what looked like a hopeful smile. "Will you make it end? Will you silence the voices?"  
  
Spike swallowed. "Yes, pet. Bring the boy down unharmed, and we can finish this."  
  
Drusilla pushed away from the railing and vanished inside the house. A few long minutes later she appeared at the front door. She was supporting a comparatively large figure with her small frame. She helped him walk out across the threshold and carefully sat him down in the muddy water outside. The man looked disoriented up at the torchlights. It was Xander … bloodied and dirty.  
  
"One last kiss?" Drusilla asked, looking hopefully up at Spike from where she was squatting down beside Xander. Her sharp knees stretched the wet fabric of her dress.  
  
"I can't, pet," Spike said. His gaze was faltering. Robin noticed he was unable to look directly at his progenitor.  
  
Drusilla slowly rose to a straight position. Her white dress stuck to her like a second layer of wrinkly, wet, translucent skin. "What's the matter, dearie? Don't want your friends to see you kiss your mommy?" She laughed. "Dru is only teasing, Spoik. Don't wanna hurt you. Only wants you to make it stop. Can you do that, Spike?"  
  
Spike looked at his submerged boots. Robin heard something rattled the smaller branches above them. A sting in the nape of his neck told him Sineya was watching.  
  
Spike looked up again. He was ready to say something, but Sam interrupted him. "Where is Riley?" she said.  
  
Drusilla tilted her head. "Who is this? Another barbie doll in green clothes? G.I. Joan?" She looked at Spike and hissed.  
  
"The soldier, Dru," Spike said. "The blonde one and the others. Where are they?"  
  
Drusilla looked annoyed. "There are some flesh-sacks in the attic," she said. "They aren't done maturing, yet. They are giving the room such a wonderful smell." Her smile was eerily pleasant.  
  
Sam charged forward. She was heading for the door. Spike cursed and leapt after Sam to position himself between her and Drusilla.  
  
"Bloody, hell," he shouted. "For God's sake. Keep your distance."  
  
Sam had vanished inside the building. Robin could vaguely hear her run up the stairs, but the rain and wind drowned out most of the noises from inside. The two vampires were circling each other. Drusilla's lips pulled back in a mischievous grin.  
  
"I wasn't gonna prick her," she said with mock innocence.  
  
"Please, Dru," Spike said, still circling. "Don't make this harder."  
  
Drusilla stretched out her hands, leaving her tiny chest exposed. Her smile widened. Spike pulled out his stake. He held it higher. Drusilla looked him straight in the eyes. The tip of her tongue made its way slowly across her dark upper lip.  
  
Meanwhile, the soldiers were getting antsy. One of them charged forward while Drusilla's back was turned to him. He hit her hard in the back of her head with his baton. She fell forward on her knees, but span around to face him. Her smooth face twisted into a demonic visage ... catlike eyes in a hard and wrinkled face … long fangs underneath trembling lips. The solider hit her again. This time against the jaw. She rolled around in the dirt. When she re-emerged, her face was muddied and dark. The other soldiers joined them. All of them battered the helpless, ghoulish thing. They didn't let up. Drusilla started to whimper. It was a horrible sound, like a sobbing infant, exhausted from too much colic crying. The soldiers had to be breaking all her bones, despite her vampiric resilience.  
  
Robin looked at Kennedy. She had her stake out.  
  
"Do it quick," he told her. "Don't let her grab you, even if she's weak."  
  
Kennedy hesitated. She was looking at Drusilla with an almost pitiful expression. Robin turned and looked, too. The soldiers kept hammering down blows. Drusilla stretched out a tiny arm. A baton hit her close to the elbow, and with a crack, the arm twisted into an unnatural angle.   
  
"Stake her," one of the soldiers shouted. "Stake her now!"  
  
It all happened very fast. Spike charged forward with a roar and threw the soldiers away. Drusilla rose with the speed of panther and flung her skinny arm towards the throat of one of the soldiers that Spike was pulling away from her. Her nails ripped up both of the poor man's vertebral arteries with surgical precision. Blood sprayed across Spike's white face. He dropped the man, who quickly gurgled to death at his feet. Spike looked horrified. His mouth hung slack jawed and his eyes shone with absolute terror. Drusilla stood smiling beside him. The mud on her face slowly washed away in the rain, as did the blood on Spike's, revealing the white, stony visages underneath the blackness.   
  
"It is time, Spike," Drusilla said, as she opened the cleavage in her dress. Her chest was all rib bones, except for the two flat mounds that made out her breasts. Her nipples were close to colourless. She bent down to the ground and picked up Spike's stake. "Take it," she said and pushed the stake into Spike's shaking hands. "End it!"  
  
Nothing happened. They all just stood there ... stunned, uncertain of what to do. Spike did not move. The dead soldier's blood was washing past Robin and Kennedy's feet.  
  
"Oh, Spike," Drusilla said and touched his cheek with her bony hand. "I'm sorry, dearie, but you must go with them and leave old Dru behind. Don't let them know that you are scared."  
  
Spike pushed her away with his palm and lifted the stake. His eyes were burning. His expression was strained. His lower lip, quivering.  
  
"It will be quick, Spike," Drusilla said. "One thrust, then poof."  
  
The stake came down. Spike spun around and flung the piece of wood across the treetops, screaming at the top of his lungs. He looked back at Robin and the others with a look of either contempt or confusion. Then he turned back to Drusilla, grabbed her tiny shoulders and pulled her close and kissed her. It was a violent and clumsy kiss. The two of them looked as though they were trying to eat each other's faces. When Drusilla pulled back, she was bleeding from her tongue, dripping dark red blood down her chin.  
  
Drusilla was laughing. Spike had gathered up all her dark hair in his white fingers and was holding her close to his face. Robin couldn't make out what they were saying, but if he could, he would have heard Spike whisper, "You knew," to which Drusilla replied, "Of course, my boy. Mommy always knows."  
  
Then Drusilla pulled herself up by the nape of Spike's neck and lapped up the last of the dead soldier's blood that was washing down his face. Spike was smiling. The true terribleness of his demonic smirk became visible as the two vampires slowly turned their heads back towards Robin and Kennedy. It was hard to tell which of the fiends looked the most insane. Drusilla pulled off Spike's military sweater, baring his chiselled chest. Her own dress had slowly been sliding down her narrow frame. She looked like a snake shedding her skin or a terrible butterfly leaving its cocoon. A lightning bolt flared across the sky, illuminating both the vampires and the old mansion above them. Their bodies looked as though they were made from marble. There was something ghostly or unreal about them. Drusilla had some faint blue veins in her skin like the ones you see in white stone. The Pale Lady was back. Revenge was hers.  
  
Kennedy looked at Robin. "What do we do?" she asked.  
  
Her words brought Robin partly back to his senses. His instincts told him to strike. He felt her presence near him. Sineya was there ... in the forest ... watching him from the trees. It was his duty to stop this. Spike was staring right at him, goading him with his eyes. The soldiers were slowly scrambling to their feet, picking up their batons. Kennedy stood ready beside Robin, stake lifted. He himself was ready. His whole body flexed. He held his stake so hard that his hand was going numb. His vision became blurred and tunnelled. He saw nothing but the two luminous shapes in the raining darkness. A voice whispered in his ear. " _Only the kill_ ," it said.  
  
The stake fell from his hand. Something had stopped him. He looked down and saw Xander. The boy's head lay sideways in the mud. The running water was threatening to drown him. He was still bleeding. Somehow Robin knew that he had a choice. The boy was quickly dying. It was Xander or the vampires.  
  
"Kennedy!" He ran forward and pulled Xander's limp body up on his shoulder. The boy coughed, showing he was still alive. "We're leaving!"  
  
"What?" Kennedy came up in front of him, shielding him in case the vampires should charge them.  
  
"You wanted to save Willow's friend, didn't you?" Robin said.  
  
"But … the others?" She looked at the soldiers forming a circle around Spike and Drusilla.  
  
"Sam!" Robin shouted up at the mansion. "Get out of there! We're leaving!"  
  
There was no response from the building. The soldiers looked uncertain. Then they charged. They came upon the vampires with their batons. It was foolish. Spike had been right. Drusilla knew how to kill … quickly, mercilessly and messy. Few of the soldiers were able to even scream after she had ripped them up with her talons. They could only express their death-fear in gurgles that the storm drowned out before anyone could hear them. Spike fought like an enraged bear, throwing soldiers against the mansion wall.  
  
"We're leaving," Robin repeated, grabbing Kennedy by the shoulder. The slayer followed him reluctantly. Xander rocked uncomfortably atop his shoulder as they made their way through the forest as fast as they could. "See if you can get a signal," Robin said to Kennedy, "and call an ambulance." He had a feeling that something was chasing them. At first, he feared it was the vampires, but then he realised it was something else … something angry and betrayed. It was running after him ... on its legs and arms.  
  
All around them, Robin heard noises. It was as though the roots of the trees were moaning. Echoes of pain. It had all turned out wrong ... so wrong.  
  
****  
  
Angel watched Buffy from across the table. He had cooked for her, hoping she would eat, but she simply sat there with one elbow planted on each side of her plate and her head buried in her hands. In the reflection from the big windows, he saw a terrible vision of Buffy sitting like that all by herself with nobody to comfort her.  
  
Finally, Buffy looked up at him. It was odd. Of course he worried about Xander... in fact, he worried even more on Buffy's behalf, because he did not know what it would do to her if the news came that he was dead... but despite all that... his attention was elsewhere. The redness of her swollen eyes. Her flushed cheeks. The texture of her skin was so different from his own. He almost dreaded touching it these days, because her elastic softness only made him aware of the papery dryness of himself. There was also the fear of losing control. He knew that if he bit down around that pulsating throat and sucked her life force, he would feel almost human himself for a short while. It would not last, but it would be a moment of total bliss … to join his parasitic unlife to something truly living. Cold and stale pig's blood could not do that.  
  
"Tell me it is going to be all right, Angel."  
  
Angel blinked. He cleared his throat. "I can't do that," he said. "It may not be."  
  
Buffy looked away. "Do something … please."  
  
"There is one thing I can do," Angel said. "No matter what happens, I will still be here afterwards. Always!"  
  
"How can you promise that?" Buffy said. "If Xander … then anyone. It was hard enough to lose mum … and Tara … but Xander. I always took him for granted." A tear ran down her cheek. "Just like I took for granted that you would one day come back to me. And you did. It worked."  
  
Angel was going to say something about not grieving prematurely, but a sharp pain in his wrist cut him off. He looked at his arm. A tear opened up in his skin and a spray of blood gushed forth, spilling all over the white tablecloth.  
  
"Angel, what happened?" Buffy said and came running over to him.  
  
Angel pressed his palm against the wound. "This wound … " he stammered. "This is the wound I made when I sired Drusilla." He lifted his hand. He could see little bite marks all around the wound. "This is not a happy omen," he said.  
  
Buffy's warm and moist arms wrapped themselves around him. He felt her bosom against his cold, white forehead. The heat emanating from her. The sting in his arm. _Let it be over. Let it be over!  
  
_ **** _  
  
_I will tell you two truths about the world. First, it rains often. Each time, we vainly believe that the world is made to us fresh and new. It is a lie. The dirt and shit just seeps into the ground, but it is never washed away. The stench remains, and the ground will spit out things it has seemingly devoured.  
  
The second is that Dru likes wounds. Old Dru likes to play around with wounds and make them gush with blood. Old Dru likes to mix dirt into the wound, stir it around and cause beautiful infections that inflame the skin. Once it is in the veins, it never comes out. Not unless you drain it all. Shanshu! Shanshu! Death! Death! Old Dru knows a thing or two about prophecy .. oh, yes, she does. You thought I was dead. Old Dru is more alive than she has felt in a long time.

 


	5. Prophecy Boy

Angel and Buffy sat up all night. They did not speak. Buffy had cleaned and wrapped a bandage around Angel's spontaneously appearing wound. He had not told her that it still burned or that it had failed to heal as suspected. It was a minor issue. They just sat there in silence.

The first time the phone rang, it was Dawn asking for news. The second time, it was from a hospital in Louisiana. Xander told them he would be returning to the West Coast the following day. Buffy cried with joy. However, Xander also had some bad new, which took a little longer to sink in, but soon after Buffy had hung up, she and Angel both started to realise the full seriousness of this new information; Drusilla was still alive and not only was Spike with her, but they had slaughtered several Initiative soldiers.

"I can't believe it," Buffy said.

"He loved that woman … in his own special sense of the word," Angel said. "It is funny … most vampires don't form lasting attachments, but those that do can be fiercely loyal. When I first knew Spike, he was just a little vampire cub clinging to Dru's skirts, doing everything he could to impress her." Angel was surprised to find himself smiling at the memory. "But after he killed his first slayer, he became famous, yet from all accounts, he stayed by Dru's side through all those years … except for those times when she decided to break up with him."

"But he has a soul now," Buffy said. "How … I just don't get it. He was so different during that last year, when we fought Caleb and The First."

"When I was … cursed, I went into hiding. It was like the sensory shock of baby being ripped from its womb … you have no idea how overpowering it was," Angel said. "Then it slowly started to die down. I felt more like myself again … like Angelus … and my instinct was to seek the familiar. I went to find her … Darla. I tracked her all the way to China."

Buffy looked at him. "You've never told me this," she said.

"You know I've done things since I got my soul that I am reluctant to talk about," Angel said. "It took me a long time to get where I am now." He looked away. "My point is … I didn't want my soul. It was only after Whistler brought me to you that I first started seeing it as an opportunity. I could put myself between the vampires and the people they wanted to hurt." He looked up at Buffy again. "But it has never been easy to see the soul as a gift. So often I've clung to the possibility of redemption … to reach a state where the pain will stop."

Buffy shook her head. "I don't..."

"Being a vampire with a soul is no dance on roses, Buffy," Angel said. "After I found you, I thought I would finally be able to come to terms with what I was, but it wasn't that easy. Once Spike realised the soul wasn't a prize … that there is no way out … he probably started wishing he had never gotten it to being with."

"That is no excuse," Buffy said. "I supported him and gave him so many chances to prove himself. This is the last straw! It could ruin our relationship with The Initiative … everything we have fought for. All those we try to protect … the Slayers … the Wiccans."

"It makes me wonder," Angel said. "These visions that I've been having … about the Shanshu coming to fruition … Buffy, what if they are just dreams? We are so used to seeing dreams as premonitions of the future. What if it is just wish-fulfilment?"

Buffy looked at him with a stiff expression. It was clear that she too had become so used to the idea that Angel would become human soon, that she had stopped considering the possibility that it might not turn out. She took a deep breath, and then her face softened again. "Angel, tell me what is on your mind," she said and took his hand in hers. Angel felt her soft warm moistness against his own cold palm.

"Buffy, I need for this to end," Angel said. "Once there are no more vampires left, there is no place for an undead champion in this world. The Initiative has made it very clear that they will not tolerate me going back to being a vigilante. What will I do with myself? It is getting worse by the day. I can't stand being in my own skin any more."

Buffy squeezed his hand. "Angel, we are here for each other. We will make it through."

Angel pulled himself free. "We're kidding ourselves. We need the Shanshu. Without it, we can't be happy together." He pulled back his shirt sleeve and ripped up his bandage, showing his still bleeding wound. "This is what I still is." The dark blood ran in rillets over his spotlessly white skin.

"Angel stop it," Buffy said, pulling the bandage back over the wound. "I wish Willow was here. We need one of the Wiccans to look at that wound."

"I know what it is," Angel said. "It is a reminder … a reminder of what I still am."

"Angel, please be patient," Buffy said. "We've never taken our sorrows prematurely before."

"And look how that has worked out," Angel mumbled.

Buffy smiled. "We're here. We are together. I am … content … and less anxious about the future than I have been in a long time." She leaned forward and gave Angel a moist kiss on his papery lips. "I need to go make a phone call," she said. "We need all the Slayers – active or retired - that are available to hunt down Spike and Drusilla before they do more damage."

"Should we go, too?" Angel asked.

Buffy sighed and thought for a moment. "It is a long way and you can't fly. We can't really ask The Initiative to charter us a plane," she said. "Hopefully, our allies will find them soon. We should be here for when Xander gets back."

She got up and went to the other room. Angel felt weary. He fixed up his bandage again. Then he went to the microwave and got his cup of heated pig's blood. It tasted lifeless and stale. His body felt just as dry and dead as before. He wanted to sleep. He walked up the stairs to the bathroom. It occurred to him that it was ridiculous how much time he spent on his hygiene and grooming. His body was always clean and dry … sterile. Washing was just another empty gesture in his performance to pass as human. Still, he turned on the tap. The pipes howled as the water started running. A searing pain exploded in his forehead. He looked up and to his shock he saw his own terrified reflection staring back at him. It only lasted a couple of seconds. It could have been his imagination.

****

The next morning Angel felt terrible. His limbs were stiff. He could feel his eyeballs in their sockets, like horrible glass spheres. His undead carcass had never felt so utterly dehydrated. His tongue lay uncomfortable inside the dry walls of his mouth. He had this paranoid vision of himself just exploding into dust spontaneously.

He was relieved when he heard the car pull up. He couldn't go out to greet them or even pull away the curtain, because the sun was out.

Buffy came in, supporting Xander with his arm swung around her neck. He looked awful. In two years, he had aged a decade and now he had barely survived a terrible ordeal. It was a harsh reminder that mortal existence has its cons.

Buffy was beaming. "See who is here," she said, carefully guiding Xander through to the living room and helping him into Angel's favourite reading chair.

"Hey, buddy," Xander said with a slight wave. He was obviously both exhausted and in pain.

"Hello, Xander," Angel said. "Glad to see you're all right."

"I am just happy to be among friendly vampires," Xander said.

"You must be hungry," Angel said. "I'll make you something."

"I hope it's soup," Xander said. "I am not quite ready to get back on solids yet." He was squirming to find a comfortable position in the tall soft chair. Buffy was helping him off with his shoes.

Angel went into the kitchen and looked inside the cupboards. Buffy was the only one of them who ate, so they were often low on food. Angel wondered if he should order something. As he pondered this, Xander appeared in the doorway. He looked even worse than he had done a minute ago. Fresh blood was streaming down his haggard body.

"You're sick," Xander said, pointing an accusatory finger at Angel. "You must be. How could anyone – vampire or no – have created something as vile as that bitch? What did you to her? How did you make her that way?"

"Xander..?" Angel dropped an open bag of instant soup. Its contents exploded into a soupy cloud of dust that spread across the floor. When Angel looked up again, Xander was gone and Buffy stood in his stead, looking concerned.

"Angel, what is going on?" she asked.

Angel pointed to where she stood. "Xander..?" was all he was able to say. His mind was confused and tired.

Buffy looked back across her shoulder. "He is sleeping," she said.

Angel walked up to her and wrapped his arm around her slender waist. True enough, Xander lay sleeping in the chair underneath Buffy's comfy blanket. His chest fell and rose in a slow rhythm. Threads of salivaic drool hung from his open mouth. His rumpled hair exposed his balding temples. Yet, underneath all that crass unappealingness lay a pumping heart and lungs.

Buffy wrapped her own arms around Angel. "I am happy now," she said and looked up at him. "Try to smile."

Angel tried to oblige her, but he could only make out what must have looked like a very strained and artificial half smile. He imagined himself looking like a Hollywood botox-junkie – a despairing mind trapped underneath a mask of uncanny youth.

"I don't feel well," he said. "I think I am gonna go to bed."

Buffy looked worried. "I am gonna call the Wiccans," she said. "You don't ever feel unwell unless there is some special reason. It must be connected to that wound."

"I don't think so," Angel said. His mind was spinning. "I'll be all right after some rest."

He left Buffy and went up the stairs. When he came into the bathroom, he saw that someone had written, _SHANSHU = DEATH_ , in lipstick on the mirror. He blinked, believing he was hallucinating again, but it didn't go away, as he had hoped. His lids chafed against his dry eyeballs. He couldn't let Buffy see this. In panic, he rubbed the glass with his palm. The red smear on his hand gave the illusion of life to his skin. He ran the tap and used a cloth to clean the glass and himself.

What was he doing? Why did had he come back to Buffy? What had changed? Nothing! He was nothing but a burden to her now … an anchor to a world she and the rest of humanity wanted to leave behind … a world of demons and horrors. He had forgotten how painful their relationship had been. He had gotten so used to her simply being an ideal he held in his heart to keep himself going when things had been at their darkest. That may have been what he had been to her as well. Now that they were together again, they were once again real to each other … as were their problems. Maybe it was time to leave again. He could travel to Louisiana and help in the hunt for Spike and Dru.

His throat was so dry. His tear-ducts refused to cry. His pride chided himself for trying to wallow in his misery. There was no life in his rotten heart ... no place for sadness and self-pity … just the stony determination to be useful to the world in whatever way he could. That was who he was. That is what he had held onto when nothing else made sense. Love and salvation was not for him.

He put a glass to the tap and filled it with water. It made no sense. He didn't need it. It couldn't help him. He was just so tired of being dried out, so he drank, refilled and drank again. Then he held his hands underneath the tap and splashed his face with water.

He thought back to a dream he had once had. He and Buffy was walking through the park in the sunshine. They waved at Spike and Drusilla, who were pushing a baby pram. They stopped at Starbucks to buy milkshakes from Harmony, who managed to misspell both of their names. At the group for expecting parents, they met James and Lisbeth, who were a couple of month further along than Buffy. She was absolutely glowing with expectant happiness. The past was dead and buried. They had all vowed not to speak about it. The future was what mattered. It was a beautiful dream … but that was all it was.

Angel drank a last glass of water and stumbled into his room on unsteady legs, collapsing onto his bed. He was too tired to realise how feverishly hot he had become in the last couple minutes. His mind drifted into dreamland.

"Let me see your ticket, Mr Angel," the receptionist said.

Angel handed her the Shanshu papyrus. She unwrapped it and scanned the text. "Everything seems to be in order," she said. "Angel … the grumpy old man with soul. Step right through there," she said and gestured at an open doorway.

Angel started moving. What had she meant by old? He touched his cheek with his hand and looked at his reflection in a window as he passed it. Still smooth as porcelain.

He joined the rest of the tour group. They were an unseemly lot. An old woman with facial warts glared at him. A teenager with horrible acne and a thin moustache clearled his throat nervously. A woman coughed right at the infant child she was holding in her arms. Angel wished he could have seen this exhibition on his own.

"If you could all please follow me," a redskinned demon said.

The group followed him to the first item. It was a beautiful marble statue of a man standing triumphantly and holding a cable in each hand. "This is the brave Allen Francis Doyle," the demon explained to the crowd. "He was a selfish man until one day when he finally understood the value of heroism. Here we see him defusing the mass destruction device that killed him."

Angel chuckled. "That is not what he looked like," he said. "His face was melting from his skull while he worked."

The other tour members shushed him. "If you are quite finished back there," the demon said, "we will move to the next item."

He took them to yet another statue. This one showed a small woman hunched over a piece of unassembled machinery, holding a spanner in her hand. "This is the brilliant Winifred Burkle," the demon explained. "Her unorthodox ways of solving problems saved many lives, but not even she could save herself from the terrible Illyria."

Angel stifled a laugh. "When I found her, she was completely crazy and lived by herself in a dank cave," he said and nudged the old man beside him, who looked at him with an expression of utter contempt.

The demon-guide frowned. "Please, Sir, if you keep interrupting, I will have to ask you to leave," he said. "Now, please, follow me to the next item."

The next statue showed a tall man standing with one foot atop the head of a demon that lay dead at his feet and resting a shotgun on his shoulder. "This is the brave Wesley Wyndam Pryce," the demon explained. "Though an awkward and uncertain man in his youth, he grew to become one of the most dedicated champions the world has ever seen."

"True," Angel said, "but he was also a baby snatcher and a back stabber."

The demon merely scoffed as he gestured for the group to move to the last statue in the exhibition. A woman sat atop a massive throne, draped in a long gown, wearing a diadem on her head. "This is the unequalled Cordelia Chase," the demon said. "A woman so pure of heart that Heaven itself exalted her to godhood."

Angel smiled. "I bet her devotees never heard about her shoe-obsession," he said. "She would have let the world burn for a new pair of fancy shoes."

He left the group and walked further into the museum. He found Buffy, Willow and Xander standing in front of an empty pedestal. The plaque simply read, _Angel, helper of the helpless and disenfranchised._

"He was truly the greatest," Xander said.

"I loved him like I have loved no one else," Buffy said.

"He always seemed so sure," Willow butted in. "Like he was always certain things would work out."

"It wasn't like that," Angel said. "I was terrified most the time. I just wanted to help."

Faith came walking up to them. "I used to be so angry," Faith she said, "but he showed me that if I forgave myself, I could also forgive the world."

"I couldn't even give myself peace of mind," Angel said. "I only helped people, because I was so desperate for the world to have meaning."

The infernal tour guide came up behind him and gave him a pat on the back. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "You never faltered. Not once. We will always work to live up to your example."

The tour group applauded his words. Buffy wiped off a tear from her sad but smiling face.

"No," Angel said, "You don't understand..."

"If I ever have children," Xander said. "I want them to be like Angel was."

Connor stepped out of the crowd. "No son could ask for a better father," he said. "I just feel that I am such a disappointment to his memory."

"Your doing the best you can," Angel said to him. "I wasn't able to be there for you like I wanted."

Connor did not seem see or hear him. He was staring at the empty spot on the pedestal.

"It is time," the tour guide said, "… to finish the exhibition." He grabbed Angel by the arm and pulled him towards the pedestal.

"What are you doing?" Angel said. "Let me go." He tried to resist, but his limbs had no strength. He tried calling to Buffy for help, but his dry throat had no voice. His skin was crystallizing into cold marble. On his hands, the weak outlines of veins disappeared underneath the pure white stone. He couldn't move, see, speak, breathe … but even blind, he could feel everyone admiring him. Awful admiring scrutiny. He wanted them to throw him into the dumpster of a dark alley where no one would look on him again.

****

Buffy sat in the sofa opposite the sleeping Xander. It felt good to have him back. Her Sunnydale High yearbook lay in her cross-legged lap. It was Willow's. Her parents had brought it with them after Willow convinced them too flee Sunnydale, before the whole town crumbled into a crater. She was looking at the old photo of young Xander with his silly smile trying to look suave. He looked older now, but he was still handsome … though in a more rugged and dadly way. It was hard to imagine that the photo was only a few years old. It felt like a lifetime.

She turned another page and came upon the photo of Harmony, the most recent casualty of the Class of 99. She had learned recently that her parents had been killed by übervamps and never escaped the destruction of Sunnydale. It occurred to her that this meant that this photo … in the few yearbooks that still survived … was likely the only tangible evidence of the existence of Harmony Kendall. She may not have been a great woman … or even a good person … and maybe The Initiative was right to kill her, even though Gunn tried to protect her … but it was still tragic. Everyone deserved to be mourned for at least a few years after their passing. Who even spared a thought for Harmony these days? She looked up at Xander. She wondered how he had felt about helping Riley and The Initiative take her out.

She shouldn't think this way. Vampires were evil … and even Harmony could potentially be dangerous. The world was a better place without her.

She turned another couple of pages and came upon the picture of Cordelia … another sad fate. Her father eventually took his own life in prison, strangling himself with his bedsheets. Her mother was living a quiet life on the east coast somewhere. Buffy was stung with a feeling of regret. She wished she could have squared things up with Cordelia. The last time they met was hardly pleasant. Angel spoke of her as a great support during his trying time in LA. Buffy even suspected there may have been a thing going on between them, though she never pushed Angel on the issue. Now she was dead … or risen … raptured up to Heaven … not to rest, like Buffy had done … but apparently to rule as a higher power. It sounded insane.

"Cordelia," she said in a hushed whisper. "I have never been the praying kind … but if you are out there … somewhere … know that we remember you and that I am grateful for all you did. If you can, please look over us … especially Angel … and Dawn … and make sure Willow returns to us."

Xander stirred and opened his eye. "Oh my god," he said. "I've left the lair of one rambling woman only to find myself in the lion's den once more."

"Shush, Xander," Buffy said and closed the book. "I am just a little anxious. I figured it would be good to speak my worries out loud … even if there was no one to listen … maybe especially if there was no one to listen."

"I get it, Buffster," Xander said. "I prayed to every god while I was Drusilla's prisoner. It seems one of them answered me."

Buffy got up and kissed Xander on the forehead. "You just rest," she said. "I am going up to check on Angel. He wasn't feeling all that well earlier."

"Not feeling all that well?" Xander said incredulously. "The man is a vampire!"

"Maybe he was just shook by the news about Spike and Drusilla," Buffy said, not wanting to mention the mysterious wound on Angel's arm. Xander needed rest.

Buffy went upstairs and knocked on the door to Angel's room. There was no response, so she let herself in. Angel lay peacefully on the bed. Even after all these years, he looked like a naïve young boy who had never endured anything painful in his life … that is, when he was asleep and his brow wasn't creased in moody contemplation.

She sat down at the edge of the bed. Angel didn't stir. She thought about what he had said … about his Shanshu visions being merely dreams. She had wished so hard. Angel as a vampire did not fit inside the life that she wanted for herself … and the truth was … when she looked real deep … the truth was … that it didn't matter. Angel represented all the qualities she liked about herself … the things she strove to develop. He knew the pain that had come with her special circumstance. Even in a world where she did not need to serve as the Slayer, she needed him by her side, because ordinary life was unlikely to be a walk in the park, even if it wasn't quite as harrowing as saving the world from apocalypse. She needed another survivor. She needed Angel. If he felt she would be better off without him, then she would simply have to tie him to this bed … and … scratch the next part … the thought of bondage fun wasn't worth the possibility of having three fourths of The Whirlwind loose at the same time.

Buffy shook Angel and called his name. She wanted to tell him of her decision. His eyes remained shut. She had never known him to be a heavy sleeper. She shook him again. Then she noticed it... The bedsheets were drenched in sweat. Angel's skin was cold but moist. It felt softer than it had ever been.

It took a while for her brain to figure out what was going on. Then it struck her. Angel was dead. Truly dead! And before he had died, he had been alive. Truly alive! She shook Angel again! No response. She slapped him across his cheek. Nothing happened.

She reached for the phone, but it slipped from her hand and landed on the floor. The battery fell out and rolled underneath the bed. She called for Xander, but he did not come. In the end, she collapsed next to Angel's cold body and started crying at her ineptitude. After her mother died, she had run through a scenario like this many times in her mind. Why couldn't she calm herself?

She knew there wasn't nothing she could do. Just like with her mother … she had arrived to late. Angel was too cold for there to be any hope of saving him.

"Cordelia," she sobbed. "Cordelia, if you are here..." She climbed atop Angel's chest, leaned down and kissed his dry cold lips. Then she grabbed his face in her palms and breathed as much air into his mouth as she could. She sat up again and tilted Angel's head backward to open his air passages. Then she set her hands on his chest and started pushing down against it. She felt one of his ribs crack. She leaned down and kissed him again, before sitting up again and massaging his chest. She quickly lost any sense of time. She was determined to keep at it until Xander came running up to pulled her away ... but Xander never came. Her face was so wet with tears she could hardly see. Angel's body was still cold against her sweaty palms.

It couldn't go on forever. She banged on his chest with her fists and then pulled him in for one final everlasting kiss. She would lie there, hunched over him, clinging to his torso with her legs, never letting go of that embrace, never parting her lips from his … never … never.

Then she felt a hand on her back. Angel was pulling away from her. She sat up. His eyes were open. He was gasping for air. She could hardly see through her watering eyes. Was this real?

"Buffy," he said once he was able to speak. "Buffy, I am dying," he rambled. "… the prophecy was a lie. Damn you, Wesley. It was all a lie."

"You're not dying, you dufus," Buffy said. She was pressing a pair of fingers to his throat. "Can't you feel it?"

Tears made their way down Angel's cheeks … big wet tears rolling down his flushed cheeks. His eyes were swollen and red.

Buffy wiped her eyes and as she did so, she looked to the side and noticed their reflection in the window. A Buffy was sitting astride her angel, looking just as baffled to see Buffy as Buffy was to see her. "Look," Buffy said to Angel. "Look at you."

Angel looked. "That's us," he said.

They were both unable to speak coherently, so Buffy pulled off her and Angel's sweat-drenched clothes and crawled underneath the covers with him. They spent the entire night locked in a tight embrace, their wet bodies sticking to each other, marvelling at every sign that Angel's body was alive … counting his breaths … taking his pulse … imagining the lovely things they would do to each other once they had their strength back. It was unnecessary to give words to their dreams. Each of them was sure they knew what the other was thinking. All the barriers had been broken.

****

Xander yawned and stretched. He looked to his side and saw Angel sitting there in a slightly smaller chair, sharing his blanket and eating ice cream from a paper bucket. "You want some?" Angel said and handed Xander his spoon, looking at him with a dorky, toothy, yet fangless grin.

Buffy emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate of freshly baked brownies. "More medicine for my two favourite patients!"

Angel punched Xander in the shoulder. "Aren't you happy to be alive, buddy?" he said.

Xander closed his eye. _I knew this was too good to be true. I am still in Drusilla's mansion having crazy dreams._  
  
  
  
<3

 


	6. Penny Dreadful with Spies

Let's consider Andrew for a moment. Why, you ask? What embers could possibly burn within such a shallow and empty husk as our friend Andrew? Let me tell you, my gentle and most appreciated reader, there is much you don't know about Andrew. So, let's consider Andrew for a moment. Let's consider Andrew as he lay on the beach of Coney Island one sunny morning, after having waited for the sea-fog to pass, wearing only his little short shorts.  
  
"It is a booty call," Pedro said.  
  
"It is not a booty call," Andrew insisted.  
  
Pedro frowned. "Don't lie to me," he said. " _Follow the white rabbit!_ That is a booty call!"  
  
"Why do you say that?" Andrew asked.  
  
Pedro sighed. "Because The White Rabbit is the name of a queer café in Williamsburg," he said.  
  
"So?" Andrew asked. "Maybe they just want to meet me there."  
  
"… for a booty call," Pedro said. "And why is it addressed to The Lone Ranger?" He looked at Andrew's cellphone again.  _Lone Ranger, follow the white rabbit!_ "Is that your hook-up name?"  
  
Andrew took off his sunglasses and sighed. "Pedro, my newest and dearest Mehican friend, there is much that you don't know about me." He looked down at his friend, who lay on his front with a raised torso, resting his head in his palms. "I have a past. The Lone Ranger is the name I took when I was a member of the infamous Scooby Gang."  
  
Pedro creased his beautiful forehead. "You were a stripper? In a group? And you called yourself the Scooby Gang? That is ... kinda inappropriate."  
  
Andrew shook his head slowly. "Pedro, my friend, I wish it was something that innocently trivial. I was … a slayer of the vampyr."  
  
Pedro raised his thick eyebrows even further. "Is that some crazy West Coast kink?" he asked. "Never heard of it."  
  
Andrew smiled and shook his head again. "Pedro, you've lived a sheltered and easy life."  
  
Pedro frowned even harder.  
  
"Just trust me, my friend," Andrew said. "Take me to this White Rabbit Café that you speak of. I may need you by my side."  
  
Pedro stood up and ruffled his jet black hair. "Oh, I am coming all right," he said. "I am not letting you go to what is obviously a booty call on your own." He pointed two fingers at Andrew. "I have my eyes on you, pollito."  
  
They crossed the boardwalk and got into Pedro's car. Andrew looked at the people on the carousels and the roller coasters. He wished he could be like them … just walking around with no worries … eating cotton candy with Pedro. Such frivolities were not for someone like him. He was a man with a burden, ever striving to earn his redemption. He couldn't let a pretty boy with tan and muscular calves distract him from his purpose.  
  
Driving to the cafe took what seemed like forever, due to the heavy traffic. Andrew emptied several juiceboxes on the way. It calmed his nerves. He wondered who had sent him the message. Only a few people knew his code name. Everybody refused to use it after he introduced the name during one of the last Scooby-meetings he had attended. Whoever it was, they had to be desperate. It was probably Buffy ... or Faith ... one of the big guns, at least. He secretly hoped it was Spike, but that was unlikely, seeing how he had screwed him over the last two times they met.  
  
They arrived in Williamsburg outside the mysterious café. The sign above the door depicted a trinity of rabbits - one excessively butch rabbit, one rabbit in a dress and a rabbit in the middle with no clear gender cues.   
  
"This is the place," Pedro said. "The White Rabbit."  
  
The went inside. Andrew recognised the bouncer. It was Dana ... the insane slayer he had picked up in the city of Angel. He gave her a nervous nod. Best not to get too close. Pedro gave the girl a fist bump. Andrew frowned. They seemed friendly.   
  
The café was packed. Boys in crop tops and girls with ruffled hair and plaid shirts stood talking in tiny circles. Everyone turned to greet Pedro. All ignored Andrew. He was too busy looking for Buffy to care, but he couldn't see a single girl with long blonde hair in the room. Maybe Faith was the one who had called for him. This was more her scene. Still, there was a total lack of long hair and natural hair colours. A man who locked vaguely like Spike walked past him, but despite having similarly sharp features, it definitely wasn't him.  
  
"Have you found him, yet?" Pedro asked, seeing Andrew look after not-Spike. "Your booty call?"  
  
Andrew was about to shake his head, but then he spotted something interesting. A woman was sitting alone by a table, hunched over her laptop. She was wearing a black sleeveless top. Her dark hair almost covered the tattoo of a white rabbit on the back of her shoulder. Andrew walked around the table. The woman looked up at him with big eyes underneath severe black bangs. The pale face was familiar, yet unfamiliar. The blood in his veins froze and he swallowed loudly. This was serious business.   
  
"Sit," the woman said and gestured to the empty chair with her bracelet-dangling arm.  
  
Andrew pulled another chair from a nearby table. "Willow, this is Pedro," he said. "Pedro, this is Will."  
  
Pedro took the chair, swung it around and sat himself astride it, resting his skinny forearms atop the back. "So..." he said. "You're my pollito's booty call."  
  
Willow raised an eyebrow. "Say what now?"  
  
Pedro scoffed in that sexy diffident manner of his. "What do you want with my Andrew, Señorita?"  
  
Andrew pulled out the remaining chair and sat himself down. "I am sure Willow is here for a good reason, Pedro," Andrew said. "She always is."  
  
Willow waved her arm, flashing long nails with flaking black nail polish. Three saucers carrying cups came floating over to the table. The teapot jumped up to fill each one.  
  
"That is quite the parlour trick," Pedro said, as he watched a spoon stir the tea in front of him by itself, "but pollito shouldn't drink caffeine. Do you have orange juice … with a straw?"  
  
Willow snapped her fingers. A girl with a shaved head and heavily pierced ears came over carrying a glass of orange juice with a straw and umbrella. Andrew took it. It was not a juicebox, but it looked … nice. It would have to do. He took a deep sip from the straw, and the umbrella hit him against the face.  
  
"Andrew, I have a job for you," Willow said.  
  
Andrew felt himself getting excited. He sipped the straw. Finally, a chance to prove himself again. The Lone Ranger had been on vacation for too long. It was time to take a break from frolicking on the beach with cute Mehican boys and reclaim his destiny.  
  
"I need you to infiltrate a secret black ops facility," Willow said.  
  
It was Pedro's turn to be surprised. "What now?" he said.  
  
"A military facility?" Andrew sipped the rest of his juice. "Oh boy! I thought I was going to put on a show for Angel and Spike again or something. That is what I am … an act-tor."  
  
"It is your acting skills that I am relying on," Willow said. "You will be playing the role of General Dmitri Nekhorvich, stopping by for a surprise inspection."  
  
"I knew it," Pedro said. "Pollito, you're a stripper."  
  
Willow shot him a poisonous glare.  
  
"I am not a stripper, Pedro," Andrew said. "I really am the Lone Ranger … a man tormented by his dark past … determined to set things right."  
  
"It sure is a great tag-line," Pedro said and pulled the levitating spoon from his tea and flung it to the floor.  
  
Willow held up a small bottle containing a red liquid. "This is the blood of the real General Nekhorvich," she said. "It will allow me to put a glamour on you."  
  
Pedro slurped his tea. "A glamour?"  
  
"Willow is a witch," Andrew whispered in Pedro's ear. "She is the best wiz in the biz. Please, don't embarrass me."  
  
"I call myself a techno-pagan now," Willow said and pulled a necklace up from underneath her shirt. It was adorned with several pagan pendants and carved figures, as well as flash drives. She plucked one of the flash drives from her necklace and hooked it up to a small device that lay at the table. "This is my newest invention," she explained. "It is a skeleton key that will unlock most digitally locked doors and allow you to connect any computer system to my laptop, so I can hack it from here."  
  
"This is starting to look like a serious thing," Pedro said.  
  
"Pedro, my dear sweet friend," Andrew said, "this is undoubtedly the most serious thing you have witnessed in your young, sweet life."  
  
"My friend Monroe has an obsession with military regalia, and she will let you borrow her newest acquisition," Willow said. "I've unstitched all the peace signs, rainbow flags and swastikas she had sown into it. Somebody should tell her that few people reqognise that the swastika is really a Buddhist symbol."  
  
A beautiful girl dressed like a South American dictator approached the table. "I can't be held accountable for people's ignorance," she said. She was carrying a American uniform with general stars on a hanger.  
  
"Follow Monroe to the back room and change," Willow said. "You should really get a move on."  
  
Andrew got up from his seat and followed the girl. He had gotten to the counter by the time Pedro had caught up with him. "Pollito, what are you doing?" Pedro said. "Are you going to follow the plan of this crazy girl? She is loco, man!"  
  
Andrew put his hands on Pedro's strong shoulders and squeezed them lovingly. "Pedro, my friend," he said. "When I first went to the fairy tale land of Mehico, it was not to soak in the beautiful scenery or drink hallucinogenic cacti juice with dark haired boys. I was escaping the consequences of terrible, terrible crimes. Three women are dead because of me. I killed my best friend. Now I need to make amends." He looked past Pedro at Willow, still seated at the table, drumming her fingers impatiently on the wood. "I want to live in a good world, Pedro. A world like the one you grew up in. I don't want any girl to have to dye her hair or wear such horribly grotty make-up to express the anguish she carries inside."  
  
Pedro rolled his eyes. "You are just as insane as she is," he said.  
  
Andrew patted his cheek. "When you've seen the darker underbelly of this world, you will know that madness is the only sane approach."  
  
Andrew followed Monroe to the back room and quickly changed into the uniform. Monroe had had it sown in, but it still looked quite comical on Andrew's modest frame. "You look like a warrior," Monroe said. "I just wish I could attach some flowers to it."  
  
"Give me flowers when I return and only if I complete my mission," Andrew said. Then he walked back to Willow and Pedro.  
  
Willow sat on the table with a brush in her hand. She gestured for Andrew to get back in his seat. "Don't worry," she said. "This mistakenly ended up among Nico's samples, so he has tested it for both gonorrhoea and HIV." She dipped her brush in the little bottle and smeared the bloody mixture over Andrew's cheeks. Then she studied her work, added another dash to Andrew's forehead and snapped her fingers. Her smile was full of mischievous pride.  
  
"¡Dios mío!" Pedro came round to study Andrew's face. "This is unreal." He reached out and softly touched Andrew's face. "I can see the beard, but I can't feel it."  
  
Andrew looked at his reflection in a mirror on the wall. "What? I still look the same," he said. "I mean, I look like I am going to Burning Man..."  
  
"The glamour only works when people are looking directly at you," Willow explained. "You will need to avoid mirrors and security cameras while you are in there."  
  
"So anyone seeing my reflection will see me looking like a vampire with no table manners?" Andrew said.  
  
Willow nodded her head and patted his shoulder. "You're picking up fast," she said. "I knew you were the man for this, Lone Ranger." She pressed her skeleton key device and a stolen security card into his hands. "You are all set. Get your boy toy to drive you. I will communicate with you from here."  
  
Andrew got up from his seat. The skeleton key looked like the calculator he had used for advanced maths at Sunnydale High. He was certainly unsure about this, but he went for the door with Pedro in tow.  
  
"I am suddenly quite nervous about this," Andrew admitted to Pedro as they drove across the Williamsburg Bridge.  
  
"You don't have a nervous face, pollito," Pedro said. "You look like a general. Stoic and brave."  
  
"But I am not sure I can pull this off," Andrew said. He mimicked clipping and smoking a cigar. "Hello, comrades. I bring you vodka and perestroika."  
  
_Bzztt! "_ The Nekhorviches have lived in America for four generations," said Willow's voice coming out of the skeleton key calculator. "You don't," _bzzzt,_ "need to do the accent."  
  
Andrew dropped the key calculator on the floor, pulled out his seatbelt, leaned down, picked it up and found the button that said, _speak._ "Understood," he said. "The Lone Ranger is over and out."  
  
"You seem to be adopting fast to this, pollito," Pedro said. "I believe in you."  
  
"Thank you, Pedro," Andrew said, "but my palms are itchy and sticky. Even with all my field experience, I can't help being a little anxious."  
  
"I know what will help," Pedro said. "We need to stop and stack up on juiceboxes."  
  
And so General Nekhorvich appeared at the headquarters of The Special Interest Group for Fraternity Houses in America, popularly known as Dude Bro Central, carrying a plastic bag and sipping on a juicebox.  
  
"I am here to inspect the secret military lab," the General said and offered up his security card.  
  
The receptionist stared at him. To his horror, Andrew saw his own blood smeared face reflected in the glass overhanging the receptionist's desk. He sipped his juicebox even harder. Pretty soon it was empty, and he started making empty slurping sounds.  
  
The receptionist pressed a button. "I have opened the secret elevator to the secret military facility," she said.  
  
Andrew drew a sigh of relief. "Cool," he said. "I think I wanna start inspecting the most secret stuff first. Where do I go?"  
  
The receptionist stared at him, then she shook her head. "Just ride the elevator to the top," she said. "That is where the most secret stuff is located." She leaned back in her chair and resumed filing her nails.  
  
Andrew dropped his juicebox in her waste basket and retrieved another one from his bag. "Thank you," he said and walked to the elevator.  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "Good acting, Roger Moore," Willow's voice said.  
  
Andrew held the skeleton calculator to his face. " _Timothy Dalton_ is my favourite actor," he hissed.  
  
"You're no Timothy Dalton," Willow said, "but," _bzzzt,_ " you are doing all right it seems." _Bzzzt!_ "When you get inside the elevator, you need to quickly hook the skeleton key to the security camera, before someone sees your face on their monitor." _Bzzt!  
  
_ "This is sure getting complicated fast," Andrew said. "Lone Ranger is over and out!"  
  
He entered the elevator, hit the button for the top floor, hooked up the calculator key, emptied a juicebox, stepped out, walked through a corridor and came to a locked door. He tried to open it with his security key card but was denied access. The panel for the door was asking for a retinal scan.  
  
Andrew pressed for speak. "Talk to me, Will," he said. "I've come to a dead end."  
  
_Bzzz!_ "Andrew, I am looking at a girl in a cute dress with really thick thighs." _Bzzt!_ "I am saying this extra loudly so that she will hear me and know that I will be over to buy her a drink once I've finished up here."  
  
"Willow, this is super serious," Andrew said and slurped his juicebox. "I need help. We have no time for flirting. And what about _Kennedy?"_  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "Andrew, you are breaking up." _Bzzzt!_ "I need to cut comm contact for a minute." _Bzzzt!_ "Wish me luck!"  
  
"My Dios!" Andrew finished another juicebox. He looked at the calculator. It read, _Disconnected,_ in big severe letters. Andrew reached into his bag for another juicebox, but to his horror, he realised it was empty. What was he going to do now? His fingers started to itch. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He wanted to wipe his brow but was afraid he would break the glamour if he smeared the blood mixture.  
  
He heard footsteps from behind him. He turned around and saw a soldier approaching. A machine pistol hung from the soldier's neck. "Private Harrison from Delta Kappa Epsilon," the soldier said. "Are you lost, General? You've been standing by that door for a long time. It only needs a retinal scan to open."  
  
Andrew tried to speak, but he could only stammer. The soldier stared at him with a tilted head and came closer.  
  
"I need a …" Andrew stammered. "I neeed a … juicebox."  
  
"A juicebox?" The soldier said. He reached for the walkie talkie on his vest.  
  
"A juicebox, dammit!" Andrew screamed. "Where can a man find a gosh darn juicebox on this floor?"  
  
"Sir," the soldier said, holding up his palm. "There are no juiceboxes here. How about a manly cigar?"  
  
Andrew held up his skeleton calculator. "Private, you will run to the nearest canteen and fetch me a juicebox this instant," he roared, "or I will shove this illicit hacking device so far up your butt that your breath will smell like shit!"  
  
The soldier saluted, and then turned and ran. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. He could really use a juicebox, but it would probably be best to move on before the soldier came back.  
  
_Bzzz!_ "Andrew, are you there?"  
  
"Willow, I am in deep trouble over here," Andrew said. "How do I open this door?"  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "Who are you speaking to?" an unfamiliar voice said.  _Bzzzt!  
  
_ Andrew was about to panic. "Willow. Code Red! Help!"  
  
"Calm down, Andrew." _Bzzzt!_ "Just hook the skeleton key up to the panel."  
  
Andrew extended the cable from the re-purposed calculator and tried to insert it into the panel. "It won't fit," he said.  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "Just do what you do to your Mexican boy," Willow said. "Just ram it in! It will work." _Bzzt!_ "Hey, that tickles! Just give me a minute, sweetie."  
  
Andrew cursed Willow under his breath, but he managed to push the cable into its socket. Sparks started shooting from the panel. Then the whole thing blew off the wall.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Andrew looked over his shoulder. The Private was returning with the juicebox. Now he was dropping the juice and going for his gun. With a swoosh, the door flew open. Andrew leapt inside. The soldier came running towards him. In panic, Andrew hit an emergency button on the wall and the door fell shut. An alarm sounded and the corridor was bathed in red flashing lights.  
  
"Willow," Andrew screamed into the calculator. "I am in some serious shit over here."  
  
"Andrew," _bzzzt,_ "you are seriously cramping my style by screaming like that." _Bzzzt!_ "There should be a computer terminal in front of you." _Bzzzt!_ "Insert the skeleton key into it."   
  
"The cable blew up when I opened that last door," Andrew said. "And now there is a soldier with a juicebox on the other side, banging to get in."  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "Don't be so helpless, MacGayver." _Bzzzt!_ "You need to connect the terminal to the skeleton's key's WiFi." _Bzzt!_ "Or bluetooth or whatever..."  
  
"How do I do that?" Andrew said.  
  
_Bzzt!_ "Andrew it is," _bzzzt,_ " … it is kinda hard to … Hey! … kinda hard to help you from here until you connect the device. It is not so difficult." _Bzzzt!_ "Quit complaining and get to work!"  
  
Andrew clicked himself through the different menus on the skeleton calculator. The alarm kept ringing in his ears. He _really_ needed a juicebox. He cursed his luck in that he had dropped all the straws on the other side of the door. Eventually, he found a menu that read, _Bluetooth scramble._ He selected it and the device started doing its work.  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "I am in, Andrew. Images should be coming up on the terminal now. Let's see what the Initiative has been hiding from us."  
  
Andrew saw images of demons and vampires locked inside cages appearing on the screen. Lots of complicated text detailing experiments and precautions were written below. This was big. Demons were supposed to be almost extinct, but it seemed the Initiative had been hoarding them all along.   
  
_Bzzzt!_ "You're golden, Andrew." _Bzzzzzzzt!_ "I have downloaded all the files I need. I will now de-activate the pacifist chips on the demons and open their cages. That should," _bzzzzt,_ "distract the guards and allow you to sneak out."  
  
"Those demons are here in this building!?" Andrew screamed. "And you are gonna set them loose? On the city? While, I am still in here?"  
  
_Bzzzt!_ "The demons are locked away far from your position." _Bzzzt!_ "Don't worry about these Initiative fascists. They shouldn't have caged more than they can handle."  
  
Andrew frowned. "Am I speaking to Willow or to Dark Rosenberg herself?"  
  
Just then the locked door exploded off its hinges. Andrew was hit in the chest by a tazer gun. Two soldiers stormed in and carried him away. Be brave, gentle reader. It make look grim for our hero now, but our story is not over yet.  
  
Meanwhile, Willow had finished transferring the information to all her flash drives and uploaded it to the magical Wicca cloud server. She realised something had gone amiss when our brave hero did not chime back in. She got up from her seat and walked over to the girl with the big thighs and gave her one final kiss. "You have my number, sweetie," she said, "but it might be wise to wait a few months before contacting me." Then she went to the door, grabbed her long billowy coat from Dana and retrieved her blue-tinted half-moon sunglasses from its inner pocket.  
  
Once out on the street, she looked with disdain at all the  _sheeple_ who walked around with their Starbucks espressos, taking selfies and talking on speaker phone about empty trivialities. They were about to see a show. She walked into a phone booth and picked up the receiver. "I know that you're afraid," she said, projecting her voice to every secret Initiative facility in the country. "You're afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't call to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell you how it's going to begin. I'm going to hang up this phone and then I'm going to show these people what you don't want them to see. I'm going to show them a world without you, a world without rules and controls, without borders or boundaries, a world where anything is possible. Where we go from there … well … that isn't really up to you."  
  
She hung up and stepped out into the streets again. Her coat billowed around her like a cape. She ran her fingers through her dark hair. The veins in her brow thickened as they filled up with dark juicy mojo. A whirlwind raged around her. People stopped and stared at her. She smiled. Then she rocketed off the ground and flew into the sky. In the blink of an eye, she had ascended to where she could see the entirety of Manhattan laid out before her. She pointed her fist at Dude Bro Central and charged.  
  
As Willow pierced through the sky, Andrew was being tied to a chair inside a room with white sterile walls. A group of uniformed men towered around him in a circle. "General," one of them said. "You have some serious explaining to do. All our containments are on the loose. They will break out into the streets soon."  
  
"I am not who you think I am," Andrew said.  
  
Blood was dripping from his nose into his mouth. This may be hard to hear, gentle reader, but I am obliged to retell every gritty detail.  
  
"I am … a vampire slayer," Andrew said.  
  
"General Nekhorvich is a vampire slayer?" one uniformed man said to another.  
  
The other man shrugged. "I thought only girls could be vampire slayers," he said.  
  
" General Nekhorvich is not a vampire slayer," another butted in. "He is just a dirty old man, who probably has gonorrhoea."  
  
"Look," Andrew said and nodded at what was probably a one-way mirror.  
  
The uniformed men turned and stared in horror at Andrew's reflection. "We have all been duped," they said. "Sound the alarm!" "The alarm is already sounding, you idiot." "Don't call me an idiot, bro!" "You better calm down, dude, or I am gonna embarrass you next time with play racquetball." "You have nothing on me, bro! Your game is wack!" "You're the one who's wack, bro!" _"Bros_ ... focus!"  
  
While they argued, the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Willow came levitating into the room. Her hair flowed behind her and sparkled with electricity. Her pupils filled up almost all of her eyes, leaving no room for the white.  
  
"Oh no," Andrew screamed. "It is Darth Rosenberg. Help me!"  
  
The uniformed men toppled over like dominoes and lay lifeless on the floor. Willow flew into the room and lifted Andrew from his chair.  
  
"Willow," Andrew said. "I know you are still in there. I know there is good in you."  
  
"Shut up, Andrew," Willow said. "Put your arms around me. You're super heavy. But don't rub your face on me, please."  
  
Willow carried them back out through the hole she had drilled in the massive skyscraper. Dude Bro Central had been penetrated, and the two perpetrators were quickly pulling out, before things got messy. It is always good advice to leave before a situation gets too sticky, gentle reader. They flew high above the skyline. Andrew's wanted to close his eyes, but fear had paralysed him. Down in the streets, he saw demons running around, toppling police cars on their heads and frightening the living daylights out of the general populace.   
  
"Do you have a place we can hide?" Willow asked.  
  
"Take me … take me to Pedro," Andrew stammered.  
  
"Point the way," Willow said and they sat off for the southern tip of Brooklyn.  
  
They landed on the fire escape balcony of Pedro's apartment. Willow waved her hand, and the padlocked window opened for them. Andrew ran to the kitchen and threw up in the sink. Then he went to the fridge and retrieved a juicebox from his collection.  
  
"Wasn't that nifty," Willow said from the living room.  
  
"That was scary," Andrew said, sucking his straw as fast as he could.  
  
"You did well Andrew," Willow called. " _Really_ well. I am proud of you, Ranger."  
  
"That is good to hear, Willow," Andrew said. "I still feel so awful about … about Tara … I hope you don't mind me saying that. Please, tell me if I am out of line, and don't turn me into a frog … I was just hoping that we could speak for once … properly."  
  
Willow did not answer. Andrew threw his juicebox in the trash and got himself a new one. He realised he really needed to pee. "I am not asking for forgiveness," he said. "I know that it is not right for me to ask … because Buffy told me it isn't … but that is not really what I need. I just need to feel that we are cool … because I really admire you … and it kinda hurts when you put me into dangerous situations just because you don't care about me."  
  
Still no answer.  
  
"I am sure Pedro will let you stay here as long as you want," Andrew continued. _Slurp, slurp!_ "If we need to, Pedro can help us escape to Mehico. You really caused quite a ruckus down on the streets."  
  
Willow still did not answer.  
  
Andrew walked back to the living room. "Willow, I think I at least can expect you to..." Willow lay stretched out on the floor. Her face was papery white against her dark hair and bulging veins. She bled from her nose and frothed at the mouth. Then she started spasming. She was hitting the back of her head against the hard floor. Andrew could not think. The shock made him pass out.  
  
When Andrew awoke, he was curled up in the corner with his knees up under his chin. Pedro squatted down and gave him a juicebox. "It is all right," he said. Willow lay on the sofa with dried puke all down her shirt, breathing steadily.  
  
"I am the Lone Ranger," Andrew said and wrapped his lips around the straw.  
  
"Yes, you are, pollito," Pedro said and pulled him in for a hug.  
  
Willow coughed. Black bile ran down the side of her mouth. Andrew took Pedro's hand and pulled himself to his feet. He was the Lone Ranger. He could not whimper in the corner. He was going to help his friend. 

 


	7. Heroes and Villains

**  
****Part 1: The Princess Speaks Again**  
Spike is sleeping now. He cried for so long. Why do they always cry so? We had such a nice time and all. The man was a meanie. We saw him hassle a young thing with long legs and tiny shorts. Spike said he could stomach him, so we drank him together. After we had fed, Spike grew hot and boyish and he wanted to be let inside me. He pushed and fumbled. I had to ask him to go slow. Afterwards, when his dead seed juice was running down the inside of my thigh flesh, Spike began to cry. He sat down and buried his head in his little hands. I told him I wanted to see him. I wanted to see if his eyes were red and puffy. But he hid from me. Naughty little boy. He cried for so long, even though we had such a nice time of it. Now he is tired. Why do they always cry so, me wonders?  
  
Now old Dru is by her lonesome, and she can dream. What shall she dream about? A good thrust? A nest of moles underneath an old woman's arm? An oozing wound in the white flesh of a young maid? A freshly made orphan hiding under his dead mother's bed? A muscled chest you can trace with your finger? A strong little flesh spear with hair and balls at its base? No, Dru will dream of the wicked little witch. She is hiding, you know. Oh, so proud of herself, the little witch is. She has set all the beasties loose … all the beasties that the soldier boys worked so hard to catch … _run and catch … run and catch … a beastie's caught in the barbed wire fence.  
  
_ She is eating white little seeds, the witch is. Sitting in the little fence hopper's dank little apartment, stuffing her mouth. She picks the little seeds up with the little twigs that she twiddles in her little white fingers. _Chop, chop, head on a block, head on a stick._ The little seeds sticks together … making them easier to pick up. She is tired. So awfully tired. But so awfully proud. Got a little over-excited, she did. Had a little stop in her blood pump, she had. Better now, she thinks. Just needs to put some more seeds into her little mouth and chew them with her little pearly teeth and crush them with her big red tongue inside her little pink mouth … those sticky white little seeds.  
  
There is a heavy knock on the door. The little witch drops her bowl and all the little seeds roll out on the carpet. _Knock! Knock! Who's there?_ The little witch looks worried. Big sister's home. The door is ripped open. Four little ladies step inside. Their leader is a princess with goldilock hair. Spike's little goldilock princess. Beautiful forehead all creased and angry.  
  
"Willow," the goldilock shouts, as she steps into the room with her muddy sneakers, no invitation at all.  
  
"Hi, Buffy," the little witch says, and she gives the goldilock an innocent looking smile, but really she is dirty, dirty, dirty … _bile in her veins.  
  
_ Another little lady steps in. Carries herself like a little boy, she does. The witch's face falls. She knows she is in trouble now. The boyish little lady folds her arms and shakes her head.  
  
"Hi, Kennedy, sweetie," the witch tries … _such an insolent thing, she is_.  
  
The goldilock steps closer to the witch. "What the hell are you doing, Will?" she asks. "You've set demons loose on New York. Are you mad?"  
  
"I had my reasons, Buffy," the witch says. "I tried to explain..."  
  
The goldilock sits herself backway round on a chair. "Explain to me, Will, why you felt murdering our allies was a good thing to do."  
  
"They're not our allies," the witch spits. "They are going to turn on us!"  
  
The goldilock cannot fail to notices that the witch's face veins bulge as she speaks. She sighs. "Of course, they will, Will," she says. "You've pretty much declared war on them. How am I going to protect Dawn, the slayers or the witches now?"  
  
"By helping me sabotage the other Initiative bases," the witch says. "Buffy, you need to trust me. It is the only way."  
  
The goldilock shakes her head. "No, Will," she says. "You've gone too far this time. Once more, it is up to me to fix things."  
  
"You can't fix this, Buffy," the witch says. "You need gather the other for war. They won't listen to me."  
  
A third little lady steps into the room. This one has thick rope-like hair. "You've ruined everything," she says. Her swarthy little face is all twisted and angry.  
  
"Calm down, Rona," the goldilock says. "Can you and Ken look after Will for a minute? I need to step out and think."  
  
"Sure," the boyish little lady says.  
  
The goldilock leaves, bringing the fourth little lady with her. The boyish little lady looks at her witch-mistress. The witch is so different now, the boyish little lady thinks. The witch's auburn hair is all black, as though she's been held by her little ankles and dipped in tar. Dark like Dru's hair. Head dark, as Dru's head is. _Dark in the mind_. But she is still the same lovely little witch-lover, and the boyish lady feels all hot in her little bosom just looking down at the painted little witch-lips on her little witch-lover.  
  
"You've cut your hair," the witch says. And yes, the boyish little lady has cut her hair. Her little ears are on display.  
  
"That doesn't really feel important now, Will," the boyish little lady says, as she self-consciously strokes her long fringe.  
  
The little witch looks down and plays with her little fingers. "I guess not," she says.  
  
"Do you really believe what you did was right?" the boyish little lady asks.  
  
"Yes," the little witch mumbles under her breath … all guilty and shameful-like.  
  
"Then we're leaving," the boyish little lady says. "Screw, Buffy. She's not the boss of me."  
  
"What?" the swarthy little lady spurts. "Did I hear you right?"  
  
"Rona, I love you, babe, but I am taking Willow from here," the boyish little lady says. "Don't try to stop me."  
  
The little witch too feels all hot in her tiny little bosom now. Her veins recede a little, now that she knows that her big little lady-friend will protect her. _So precious, she is, oh yes!  
  
_ The swarthy little lady hurls a fist towards the smirky face of the boyish little lady. The boyish little lady twists her little body and edges her face out of the reach of the swarthy little lady's arm. The swarthy little lady cusses. The boyish little lady plants her shoe in the swarthy little lady's stomach, so that all the air puffs out of the swarthy little lady's mouth. Then the boyish little lady grabs the swarthy little lady by the collar of her pretty little shirt and butts her brow into the the little lady's swarthy face. The swarthy little lady falls back on the floor and coughs up some of her pearly white teeth and her thick bloody life juice.  
  
"Rona," the little witch screams, as the boyish little lady drags her towards the window. The two little lady lovers climb down the long ladder, leaving their swarthy little friend behind. They are fugitives now. The thought makes them all hot and bothered. They press their little lips together, and the little witch appreciates how the boyish little lady is very strong and holds her back so tightly while they suck faces.  
  
"Kennedy, I don't have words," the little witch says.  
  
"I said I would always be there for you," the boyish little lady says. "You just never believed me."  
  
"I can't promise you it is all going to be all right," the little witch says.  
  
"Leave that to me," the boyish little lady says. "You'll make trouble and I'll be there to sweep you off your feet and save you."  
  
And so the little witch and her little lover are on their way to the end point … but what about the goldilock? We need Spike's little goldilock.  
  
After speaking to the witch, the goldilock left the building and stepped out into the street. Another little lady is with her. Another little witch. A car pulls up beside them. Two big little boys in big dark suits step out. They flash little cards in front of the goldilock.  
  
"You are coming with us," the big little boys say to the goldilock.  
  
Several big little soldiers come running around the corner and disappear into the building where the little witch has been hiding. The goldilook looks concerned. Little big boys coming to get them? Maybe the witch was right, no? _No!_ The little big boys are right to be angry. The beasties that the little witch set loose are still roaming about, snapping the heads off mothers and pulling the legs off sailors. The little big boys just want to ask some questions … make sure everything is all right … make sure the goldilock is still pliant … make sure she still takes her porridge like they make it … oh, yes, the goldilock is very trusting, but she is starting to wonder, she is.  
  
The goldilock and her little witch get in the car with the little big boys. The car drives off.  
  
"You found Ms Rosenberg, we presume," the little big boys say in unison, their little big voices harmonising eerily.  
  
"I did," the goldilock admits.  
  
"How did you know where she was?" the little big boys ask.  
  
The goldilock looks to her side. "Federica here is a Wiccan," she says. "She helped me track … Ms Rosenberg's aura."  
  
The little big boys nod in unison. "We see," they say.  
  
The car stops. The goldilock is told to leave the car, but the little witch is held behind. The little big boys take the goldilock inside a building and bring her to a room with a lonely chair and a mirror covering one of the walls.  
  
"Am I a prisoner?" the goldilock asks them. "You know you can't imprison a slayer."  
  
"We are performing an investigation," the little big boys say. "We ask that you comply."  
  
They leave the goldilock alone in the room. She starts to pace back and forth across the floor. The large glass surface on the wall shows the goldilock back on herself. She can see how scared she is. What is going to happen to her charges? What is going to happen to her slayers and her little withces? What is going to happen to her little skeleton key sister? What is going to happen to daddy? Flesh-made daddy? _Hot in the loins daddy?_ The glass on the wall shows the goldilock back on herself, so she can see that she is scared, and she knows there are little eyes behind the glass discussing how scared she is in hushed little whispers. Doesn't feel like a slayer now, does she? Feels pretty lonely, yes? Starting to feel rather stupid. Poor little princess. Dru will take everything from her. Daddy as well as her little Spike, and her pig sister and her disgusting little friends.  
  
The door opens again. A proper little man steps in. His gait is all strong and proud, as if he's got a little flesh-spear up his butt. "Ms Summers," the proper little man says. "So nice to finally meet you."  
  
The goldilock walks up to him and tries to get all up in his face, but he is very tall, the man is. "You can't keep me here," the goldilock says. "I'm _T_ _he_   _Slayer!"_ Such an empty word these days, methinks.  
  
"Let me just be blunt with you," the proper little spear-up-his-butt man says. "We are not taking any chances with you. Your life depends on your cooperation, just as your friends lives will depend on both yours and theirs."  
  
"You have no idea who you are messing with," the goldilock says.  
  
The man laughs a proper little laugh … very appropriate to the situation. A rightly menacing little villains laugh. But then his big nose sniffs something. He smells something right through his thick manly moustache. He looks down at the floor. Purple smoke is rolling in through the crack beneath the door. It fills the room and makes the air thick to breath. It won't get through his little lungs. His silly face turns all purple, as he desperately tries to loosen his stupid tie noose.  
  
The goldlock pinches her nose and holds her breath. She remembers doing the same thing almost twenty years ago. As her lungs start to scream for air, she is overcome by the memory. She is little … very little … and she is looking at her daddy's big face. Her daddy does not pinch his nose when he goes under. The goldilock hold her eyes open even though the chlorine in the water hurts her eyes. Her daddy smiles his big fat smile at her, and little bubbles make their way out from between his teeth and shoot up to the surface. The goldilock is strong. She can hold her breath for a looooong time, but eventually she must come up, because her blood pump needs more little bubbles to pump through her juice-veins. She breaks the surface and gasps for air.  
  
Her mommy is there. She looks at the daddy with big worried eyes. "Don't drive her too hard, Hank," she says. "She's too young for these games."  
  
"Nonsense," the daddy says. "It builds character."  
  
The daddy holds up his palm and the goldilock reaches out to slap it with her little hand. Her mommy rolls her eyes. The goldilock laughs. She is too young to sense the tension between the mommy and the daddy. There is always tension between a mommy and a daddy. A desire to hurt … a desire for retribution. The goldilock just looks at her momma bear and her papa bear and thinks she and them fit _just right_ together. Of course, there is a new little cub in the family now. A fat little thing that her momma carries on her arm. The goldilock does not know that that fat little thing may be all that keeps her momma and her daddy together, and when the fat little thing gets a little bigger, the daddy will go his way.  
  
"One more time, Buffy," her daddy says. "Beat your record, and I'll give you two more dollars."  
  
The goldilock breathes in, before pinching her nose and pushing herself back under the water. She can hold her breath forever. This time, she will hold her breath until she gets sleepy and her daddy will have to lift her up. He will be so proud.  
  
That was long ago. Her daddy is not her now, just like Dru's daddy is not here. They are both too far away for Dru or the goldilock to reach. Now the goldilock stumbles through the empty room. The man lies lifeless on the floor. The goldilock steps over him. Someone kicks in the door. A woman wearing a scary mask comes running in and pulls another scary mask over the goldilock's head. The mask helps the goldilock breathe. The woman stick a needle in the goldilock's arm and the goldilock starts feeling less dizzy. Then the scary scarecrow woman leads the goldilock outside. Little boy scout soldiers lie sleeping all over the floors.  
  
Once they are far away from the building, the scary scarecrow woman takes off her mask. It is the angry woman that came knocking at Dru's house. The boy scout wife. GI Jane.  
  
"I didn't think I would get to you in time, Buffy," GI Jane says.  
  
"Samantha?" the goldilock says in disbelief. "I thought you were dead. Riley?"  
  
GI Jane looks down. "I didn't reach _him_ in time," she says.  
  
The goldilock hugs GI Jane. "I am so sorry," she says.  
  
"You have no idea what that whore did to him," GI Jane says … _but Dru has_ … "… his whole body … it was filled with cuts. He had wounds that had started to heal long before he died." _He was so strong, the little tin soldier. He hardly even screamed. Dru had to work extra hard._ "I carried him on my back through half of that forest, even though I knew he was dead." _So brave, she is. So very brave and strong. All for her little fleshy hubby.  
  
_ "I will kill her for you," the goldilock says. "She murdered my friend Kendra, tortured Giles, killed Angel's old flame Darla..."  
  
GI Jane's features harden. "And Spike?" she asks. "What about him?"  
  
"Him too," the goldilock promises. _Empty words._ "I've given him way too many chances." _Too many chances. The next time you meet my Spike, he will snap your little neck.  
  
_ GI Jane smiles. "It is good to be with a friend again," she says. "You have no idea what I've been through since that terrible day." She sniffs her little nose. "Riley told me things, before he died. He said he had started to suspect The Initiative where planning something … something not good."  
  
"It seems he was right," the goldilock said. "Willow found demons locked inside your hidden base in New York."  
  
GI Jane frowns again. "And set them loose on the populace as well as my fellow soldiers," she says.  
  
"I am not saying she was right," the goldilock says, "but maybe she thought that was the only way to stop them."  
  
"The Initiative can't be stopped," GI Jane says. "We are a ghost organisation. Decades ago, The Initiative was created with a mandate to protect the US against supernatural and alien threats. We operate within total secrecy and with unlimited resources. Hardly anyone outside the organisation knows we exist. We use special codes to commandeer resources and personnel from the regular army."  
  
"Then what do we do?" the goldilock asks. "I can't just stand by and let The Initiative do dangerous experiments on demons or let them capture me or my friends."  
  
"There is nothing we can do, except hide," GI Jane says. "The Initiative can only be stopped by killing all the higher officers and destroying the main bases. That way, no one will be left to rebuild the program."  
  
"That is what Willow must be planning," the goldilock says. "She is going to release the demons held captive at the other bases and burn The Initiative to the ground."  
  
"We can't let her do that," GI Jane says. "It is madness. Think about all who would die, and how an unknown number of vampires and demons would be set loose with no government agency in place to stop them."  
  
"I have the slayer army," the goldilock says.  
  
"You are not enough," GI Jane says. "If The Initiative has captured as many vampires and demons as Riley believed, then they will be too much for you to handle as soon as they start reproducing."  
  
The goldilock rubs her temples. "Then I guess we must stop Willow," she says. "Do you know where she would perform her next attack?"  
  
"Probably at The Initiative's main base," GI Jane says. "From there, she can access all our computer systems and destroy the other bases as well."  
  
"Then we round up as many slayers as we can and go there to minimise the damage," the goldilock says.  
  
And so the goldilock is moving. Now all that remains is to get daddy to come to the party. My Spike will see to that. The King of Cups will be so pleased. It will all take place on his birthday.  
  
Spike is still sleeping, but it is time to wake him up. First, for a bit of rough and tumble play. Mommy has been very bad and she needs her spanking. Then, it is time to send Spike on his way to complete his little errand. He has always taken direction so well. So trustworthy ... at least when Dru does the asking and Dru hands out the rewards ... he likes them wet and sticky.  
  
I wake him up by nibbling on his little lobe. I whisper in his ear that he is mine and I am his. We are one organism. My thoughts are his thoughts. His blood is my blood. My germs are his germs. His tears and are my tears, and his soul is our soul. I climb up and squat down above him, spread my knees for him and pull my dress up to my waist. I want him to explore my bowels, probe into my guts and shatter the barrier that separates our bodies. My brain has rotted alone inside its bone cage too long. I want to connect my vascular system to his and drink so much blood that our juice pumps start beating. I want to taste his soul. I want to be part of the pain he feels. I want his soul to explode my mind … burn out the cobwebs and melt the ice away.  
  
We are not statues. We are not dead things. We are monsters. We are the things you fear. _We are the beastie._ We live inside your skull cage. We live the secrets you only fantasise about mouthing into your lover's ear when you are by yourself, pressing your hand between your thighs. Wash off your make up. Blow your brain with junk-water. Desecrate your body with sex and self-mutilation. Howl at the moon. That is when we come. That is where we are. That is where we live. That is where we will come join you in the death dance of life. If you can be fearless, we will take you with us. If not, we will rip your throat and dig out your guts.  
  
Death may come tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, but life is now, now, now. We strut around and fret over everything, because everything is precious to us. If you don't love the world like we do, we will pluck out your eyes, rip off your ears and stump on your heart, because you do not deserve this gift. Are we just two brief candles on our way to dusty death? … or will we dance this way forever? It does not matter. We will dance this dance either way, and trust us when we say that we will kill you first. We will kill you first and we will kill you slowly and give you just the time you need to realise the beauty of the life that is slowly dripping out of your little vein-pores.  
  
No, kitten. Don't come nearer. Stay where you are. Don't step into the spotlight. This is _our_ dance. The floor is ours. You are just food. Don't close your eyes, because you don't wanna forget us, but keep your distance. Don't think so much about why you wish it was your hand that clasped mine. Don't wonder why you wish it was your mouth that pressed against my boy's mouth and accepted his hungry tongue into itself. Leave it be. Trust old Dru. This dance is not for you. Live until you are an old egg sucking crone. Dream of Dru and dream of Spike, but let us be.  
  
**Shootout at the White Rabbit  
** Kennedy and Willow escaped on foot through Brooklyn. Now remember, gentle reader, that Kennedy is a mighty slayer of the vampyr, who even as a young girl was a great athlete and used to go for long runs along the beaches of the Hamptons. Willow, while being big with the mojo, is not a runner. She quickly started to ache, despite wearing those comfortable lesbian shoes.  
  
"I can't keep up, Ken," she said.  
  
Kennedy hailed a cab. They got inside and told the driver to head north. Kennedy noticed the driver looking suspiciously as Willow, who was slumping back in her seat, looking sickly pale. Kennedy leaned over and fastened her seatbelt for her.  
  
"Are you OK, sweetie?" she asked, putting a palm on Willow's forehead. It felt oddly cold. Kennedy wondered if her palm was warm from running.  
  
"I just need to rest a bit," Willow said. "Ask the driver to take us to The White Rabbit."  
  
The driver shook his head and stepped on the pedal. Kennedy was starting to feel unsure about herself. She needed to trust Willow, but she wasn't sure if Willow was even in a condition to go through with whatever plan she had … or what kind of trouble this plan might stir up. All she knew was that it would be big, and there would be violence.  
  
The cab pulled up outside the café. Kennedy helped Willow out. She was so weak, making Kennedy even more worried. The barista came out to meet them and assisted Kennedy in guiding Willow into one of the comfier chairs. Kennedy was about to ask Willow about the next step in their plan, when a loud bang filled her ears and shattered glass came flying into the room. Kennedy ducked and pulled Willow down to the floor. It was just in time, as bullets where flying above them. The barista and the other patrons escaped out the back door. Kennedy crawled on her stomach over to the broken window and peered out over the edge. The street was filled with Initiative soldiers.  
  
"Come out with your hands above your heads," they called.  
  
"If you wanted to take us alive, why are your firing?" Kennedy called back.  
  
"We're not taking any chances," the soldiers responded, "but surrender and you will be safe."  
  
Kennedy saw two men coming out into the street and placing themselves behind the boy scout soldiers. One was a cute mehican boy dressed in short denim shorts that showed off his skinny but toned legs and sporting a stylish kerchief around his neck. The other was a gringo. A man with darkness in his eyes and pain in his heart. He is not the hero of this story. He was not the average Prince Charming. It was The Lone Ranger, also known as Andrew Wells, a man who had fought his darker side and triumphed. His fingers clasped the handle of his revolver and he drew it from the holster. Then, with a steady hand, he aimed and fired. The recoil of the high calibre weapon was so strong that he dropped the gun to the floor. The bullet hit a window several floors up and smashed the glass.  
  
The soldiers turned to face him with incredulous expressions. They may have expected to see embarrassment on his face. Instead, The Lone Ranger smiled that inscrutable smile that he is so famous for and lifted his arms, stretching them out like the Jesus of Rio. "The signal shot has been sounded," he said. "I love this next part."  
  
A series of ululating screams sounded from the surrounding buildings. Bodies fell through the air and landed on the ground with feline grace. The soldiers turned around to find themselves surrounded by a swarm of young girls. The first who tried to lift his gun received a head butt to his face. The others fared no better. The girls moved with inhuman speed and fought with an animal ferocity. The Lone Ranger walked casually through the carnage and gathered up the weapons that the soldiers dropped.  
  
Kennedy helped Willow up, and they stepped out through the shattered windows. The soldiers were scrambling to get away. One of the girls dusted her hands and came to meet them.  
  
"Seems like we came in the nick of time," she said. Her red hair was gathered up in a woolly hat.  
  
"I must admit, it is great to see you, Vi," Kennedy said.  
  
Violet's eyes turned sad. "It seems the trouble you feared, Willow, is happening," she said. "The Initiative arrested _… abducted_ … several Wiccans three days ago, along with a few slayers who tried to stop them."  
  
"What? Why weren't we told?" Kennedy said.  
  
"We don't have any way of communicating that The Initiative can't tap and trace," Violet said. "They're picking us off alone or in small groups. The only way we can beat them..."  
  
"… is to get to them where they live," Willow said. "We can't run. We can't reorganize. We can't defend ourselves. The only thing we can do is destroy them."  
  
Violet nodded solemnly. "I fear you are right," she said, "and we don't have much time."  
  
Another gunshot sounded. Willow and Vi turned their heads. Kennedy looked down. A gaping wound had opened in her abdomen. The bullet had thorn itself right through her intestines and out her back. A soldier was crouching by a lamp post, holding a smoking gun. He tried to fire again, but his clip appeared to be empty.  
  
Willow's eyeballs turned all black. She waved her hand, and the metal in the soldier's gun crushed in upon itself. Kennedy fell to her knees, clutching her wound. Willow grabbed Kennedy's wrist and pulled her along the sidewalk, leaving a bloody trail. She reached the solider and grabbed him by the throat. As she chocked him with her white fingers, his cheeks collapsed and his nose crumbled. The man screamed as his skin wrinkled and tied itself tightly around his skull. His eyes popped and smoke arose from the empty sockets. It was as though the meat inside him was evaporating, because soon he had been reduced to his skin and his bones.  
  
Willow lifted Kennedy to her feet. The wound in her stomach had closed itself.  
  
"They are strong because they are many," Willow said, addressing the slayers. "We are simply strong. Does our superiority scare them so much? Do they fear us so much that they must put us away? In cages or in the ground? I used the scythe to active the power within you, so you would have the strength to choose your own destiny and not be doomed to fill a role that had been designed for you by others. These soldiers have abducted our sisters. They will learn that we won't stand for it. Any attack on a woman's freedom is an attack on all of us, and when we retaliate, we do it as one, for all over sakes."  
  
And so, gentle reader, an army had been gathered. The Lone Ranger followed hesitantly. His mind was filled with doubt. He knew that once again he was in the eye of the storm, but he also knew this was the place for him. Whatever came, he owed it to himself and those he had hurt to face it and to help work towards the best possible resolution to this mess.  
  
"You can leave if you want," The Lone Ranger said to his loyal friend Pedro. "This is not your fight, and it is going to get more dangerous than your innocent mind can imagine."  
  
Pedro put a hand on The Lone Ranger's shoulder. " _You_ are my fight, Pollito," he said.  
  
And so, Andrew and Pedro followed behind the slayers, walking hand in hand to whatever awaited them at the journey's end.

 


End file.
